


L'appel du Vide

by roysauce



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: (it’s mostly off-screen but it’s there if you know where to look), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Awkwardness, Background Poly, Gay Disaster Shane, Getting to Know Each Other, Haley and the farmer are Bros(TM), Hope y'all like chickens, How Do I Tag, I don't wanna say, I'll be adding characters as they appear, Introversion, M/M, Magical Realism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Strangers to Awkward Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Trust/Intimacy Issues, Unreliable Narrator, and by May i mean Almost Certainly, basically I've tweaked things to accommodate to the farmer's reclusive nature, but there will definitely be some aspects of one, casual references to alcoholism, don't let the fluffy vibe fool you this fic will deal with heavy themes later on, so much body language, the slowest most awkward courtship known to man, unintentional kid fic, you'll have to pry good-godfather!Shane from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2020-11-09 06:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roysauce/pseuds/roysauce
Summary: By the end of the first week it had become painfully apparent that their new neighbor had absolutely no interest in the valley or its inhabitants. The farmer avoided the town like the plague, going as far as traversing all the way up and around the bus station and through the mountains to avoid walking through the main drag. Any business he had in town was carried out at JojaMart – though Shane has certainly never seen hide nor hair of him – and any attempts by the townsfolk to ensnare him in conversation were, ultimately, unsuccessful.By the end of the first month, any and all excitement has blown over and it’s altogether too easy for Shane to forget about their newest edition to the valley entirely. He’s never seen him, he’s never spoken to him, and aside from the odd comment every now and again, nobody even so much as mentions him.As far as Shane is concerned, the farmer doesn’t exist.(Until he does)[Alternatively: A depressive alcoholic and a socially terrified farmer stumble awkwardly into a little thing called love.]





	1. Year One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got no idea how active the Stardew tag is anymore, as (while I haven't stopped playing the game) I haven't been too active in the fandom since Stardew's initial release a few years ago. This fic was born after I recently discovered a couple paragraphs of a Stardew fic that I have no memory of writing on my phone. In the end I figured out where I wanted to go with the story, turned those few paragraphs into a chapter, and decided I wanted to share it because I ended up surprisingly proud of it. 
> 
> Fair warning, though, this is going to be a bit of a longfic, as I've got a lot planned.

SPRING

The farmer has been living in the valley for well over a month now, but as far as Shane is concerned, he doesn’t exist.

When word first came that old man Morrows’ long-lost grandson or whoever-the-hell was inheriting Lyre Farm after it’s stood vacant for so long… Well, it was just about the biggest news to hit Pelican town in forever. Everywhere Shane went, people were talking about it, about _him._

What kind of person would their new neighbor be? How old is he? Is he married? Have kids? Like animals? Fishing? The questions and speculation regarding the answers thereof were near-endless.

The truth, when it came, was somehow both incredibly anticlimactic and grossly understated all at once.

The farmer was, for all intents and purposes, nothing short of beautiful. The sort of beauty that had absolutely no business doing anything within the general vicinity of dirt- or _anything _even remotely resembling nature, for that matter. It wasn’t that he was prissy so much as he was so incredibly _pale_. Ice blue eyes that bordered on silver, ivory skin, cloud-white hair and long, feathery eyelashes to match; everything about him was clean and crisp and _white _to the point of near-blinding.

At least, that’s how Shane’s overheard him being described.

It was all people talked about, at first – the ‘farmer’ who looked as though he’d never before been exposed to the light of day. But it was a topic that could only be kept alive for so long, and when the initial buzz regarding the farmer’s unusual appearance finally quelled, the disappointment began to set in.

By the end of the first week it had become painfully apparent that their new neighbor had absolutely no interest in the valley or its inhabitants. The farmer avoided the town like the plague, going as far as traversing all the way up and around the bus station and through the mountains to avoid walking through the main drag. Any business he had in town was carried out at JojaMart – though Shane has certainly never seen hide nor hair of him – and any attempts by the townsfolk to ensnare him in conversation were, ultimately, unsuccessful in every sense of the word.

By the end of the first month, any and all excitement has blown over and it’s altogether too easy for Shane to forget about their newest edition to the valley entirely. He’s never seen him, he’s never spoken to him, and aside from the odd comment every now and again, nobody even so much as _mentions _him.

As far as Shane is concerned, the farmer doesn’t exist.

It’s just that simple.

SUMMER

The first time Shane lays eyes on the misanthropic farmer, he’s working late at the registers to cover for Katrin and is vaguely considering plucking up the ball-point pen from the counter in front of him and jamming it into his eye. Not for no reason; just to verify that he is, in fact, still alive and very much miserable. He knows that he won’t, obviously – _L’appel du Vide_, and all that – but it’s an entertaining train of thought to follow, at least.

It’s been storming all day. The power has flickered no less than eight times in the last hour and Shane has absolutely no idea why they’re even still open because it’s nearly ten o’clock at night and Shane can’t name a single person who would show up anywhere other than the Stardrop after eight.

Of course, because the universe just loves proving him wrong, the automatic doors choose that moment to slide open with a mechanical chime.

When Shane looks up, he’s expecting to see Sam (it wouldn’t be the first time he left something in the back room and had to come back for it) or maybe Pam (hunting down a late night pack of cigarettes), but the person his eyes land on is neither a wannabe Super Saiyan nor an ex-bus driver with a dangerous fondness for purple eye shadow.

No, what Shane instead finds is a man who is easily seven feet tall, white in every sense of the word, and soaked through with enough water to safely be classified as an honorary sponge.

The man’s expression is grim-set as he pulls open the sodden curtain of waist-length hair hanging in his face, mouth upturned in obvious disgust at the way the strands cling to his face and neck. He isn’t wearing a hoodie, jacket, or anything of the like to dissuade the rain like a sensible person would be. Instead, the only thing protecting him is a several sizes too big t-shirt that hangs off him like a dress, clinging uncomfortably to his wet frame. Tattoos map over nearly every last bit of exposed skin, beautiful and intricately colored in stark contrast to the rest of him, spanning up unto his jawline, serving to accentuate its sharpness.

By the time he’s finished teetering through the door like a video game character caught in a t-pose, Shane has realized that he’s staring like an absolute creep and that Morris is almost definitely glaring at him by now for not welcoming the farmer in from the rain. It’s been too long now for a greeting to be anything but downright strange, so Shane doesn’t say anything, privately resigning himself to another lecture from his boss as soon as the farmer is safely out of earshot.

“Mister Monroe!” Morris picks up Shane’s slack from his stupid little wraparound counter/desk area, blissfully ignorant to the flittering expression of absolute disgust that swims across the farmer’s face at the rubbery tenor of his voice.

Morris continues chattering pleasantries at him as he scuffs the soles of his muddy work boots on the welcome mat, humming acknowledgements under his breath whenever appropriate for reasons that Shane can’t even begin to comprehend. By the time the farmer has finished ensuring that no, Shane will not have to mop the floors again before they close (for which Shane silently, inwardly thanks him), Morris has fulfilled his congeniality quota and has gone back to doing whatever it is he does all day behind that stupid little desk space of his.

Shane looks anywhere but up as the farmer slinks past the check-out counters to the main floorspace, plucking up a handbasket as he goes and tucking it into the crook of his arm. He conducts his shopping in a timely manner; lingering in the liquor isle, perusing the canned goods, ignoring the “organic” produce entirely and stopping in the pet section to heave a fifty-pound bag of dry dog food over one shoulder with a minimal amount of effort.

When the time comes for him to amble back to the check-out with his things, Shane is fussing about with the register in a valiant attempt to look like he didn’t just spend the last ten minutes blatantly staring.

The farmer sets his basket down on the counter with a small cough under his breath, as if Shane could somehow have not noticed his approach. When Shane finally looks up, he finds the farmer’s line of sight fixed somewhere on his chest, flittering up once to meet his gaze before retreating to his hands (almost every finger is wrapped in some kind of adhesive bandage or another) as he transfers his purchases to the counter.

Shane’s voice sounds loud in the empty store when he asks the customary, “Did you find everything okay?”

The tattoo-coated hand depositing a six pack of beer onto the counter falters, and there’s a moment of startled silence before an affirmative murmur drifts into the open air.

While Shane rings up the farmer’s purchases, he takes to browsing the small display of seed packets set up on the counter and ends up tacking a dozen packets of hot pepper seeds onto the end of his receipt. Inwardly, Shane commends the farmer for his taste. His purchases add up to $43.22, and when Shane tells him as much, the farmer produces a soggy fifty-dollar bill from the back pocket of his jeans and slides it across the counter.

“Keep the change.” His voice is low—so quiet that Shane almost doesn’t hear him over the sound of the storm raging outside—but deliciously deep; honey-thick and throaty in a way that has a chill running the length of Shane’s spine, prickling the hairs on his arms to attention. Shane doesn’t say anything, doesn’t get a chance to, because then the farmer is ducking his head and ambling towards the door.

FALL

Living in a place like Pelican Town, Shane’s seen his fair share of weird.

Nothing, though, prepares him for the sight of Haley dragging the farmer into the Stardrop one night by the hand, looking just about as happy as Shane has ever seen her—and considering Haley’s default expression seems to be ‘condescending sneer,’ well… it’s unsettling to say the least.

It’s like a scene from an old western, the way the saloon goes quiet when Haley busts in the door, tugging a jittery looking farmer along behind her. Seeing Haley in the Stardrop is strange enough (she’s always acted like the place was beneath her, too small town for the girl with such big city dreams), seeing Haley _and _the farmer in the Stardrop at the same time, let alone _together?_

To say it’s mind-blowing would be an exaggeration, but it’s definitely one of the more bizarre things Shane has seen during his time in the valley.

Haley’s euphoric expression is short lived, however, as the moment she notices the number of patrons staring at them, her smile falls into a defensive sneer, “_What?_” She snarls, the word drawn out and sharpened in a way that suggests it’s anything but a question.

After another second of startled silence, the spell breaks; conversation resumes.

Haley huffs, lips curling up at the corners in self-satisfaction, but it doesn’t stop her eyes from flicking over the room in a way that’s not so much judgmental as it is _warning_. An unspoken command, like a mother pinning their child with a narrow-eyed look of ‘_be nice_.’

“See? Not so bad.” Shane hears her tell him as she tucks herself into his side, fingers knitted snugly between his.

Shane lets out a long breath, shakes his head, and goes back to his drink.

There’s a story there, somewhere, and Shane honestly isn’t sure he wants to know what it is.

The evening mostly goes back to normal after that, though Shane is keenly aware of the farmer’s presence, nestled away in the back corner with Pelican Town’s resident mean girl. The two appear to be getting along well, although Haley seems to be doing most of the talking. The farmer seems content to listen, though, and before long, his stiff posture is loosening into something more relaxed – be it from the tumbler of whisky in his hand or something else.

At one point he laughs at something Haley says, and it’s a sound so low, rich with so much bass, that it cuts straight through the noise clouding the room, cozying up against Shane’s eardrums in a way that brings every hair on his body to attention. Something deep in his gut wakes at the sound; slinks out of its long hibernation with a wide stretch and a licentious purr of interest.

Shane pins the feeling down with a disbelieving scoff, swallows down the rest of his beer in one go.

_Never gonna happen_, he tells the demon living in his gut as he flags down another drink.

WINTER

It’s a little past ten o’clock in the morning on a Monday and Shane is enjoying using one of his sick days to nurse Sunday night’s hangover when there’s a hesitant knock at the door.

That, in and of itself, is enough to put Shane precariously on edge.

Nobody really _knocks _in Pelican Town so much as they just wander inside while maybe or maybe not tossing out a word or two to make their arrival known.

Marnie is out doing… whatever it is she does on her days off and Jas has already gone to meet Vincent and Penny at the library, so there’s only Shane to mind the ranch. Usually, that’s not something that bothers him. But, usually, the only people Shane has to worry about dealing with are the same people Shane has _always _had to worry about dealing with.

Except, this time, Shane is fairly certain that he already knows who’s on the other side of the door and he’s really not too keen about the idea of facing him.

Maybe if he ignores him, he’ll just wander back home.

Another knock immediately following the thought stifles Shane’s hope. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up from the kitchen table and sets his half-eaten bowl of cereal off to the side. Knock number three doesn’t come before Shane is over in the entryway pulling the door open, but it was definitely in the works because the farmer’s closed fist falls through the doorway to thump against Shane’s chest, knuckles knocking against his left collarbone.

The farmer jerks his hand back like he’s been burned, takes a crooked step away from the door. Shane hadn’t really been looking too closely when he’d seen the farmer at the Stardrop, (and before that, when he’d been slinking around like a half-drowned rat) but now, Shane thinks, he looks good. He looks really, _really _good. His t-shirt is still way too big (And, seriously, why isn’t he wearing a coat? It’s freezing out.), but Shane thinks that maybe it’s the best a man as tall as the farmer can find without having something custom-made. His hair has been pulled back into a sloppy bun and topped with a black baseball cap, mid shoulder-length bangs hanging loose to frame his face.

Shane could do without having to make eye contact with himself at the behest of a pair of mirrored aviators, though. He knows he looks like shit, okay? He doesn’t need to be reminded of it as he stares down a man who looks like he just walked off the cover of Hipster-Chic Magazine.

“We’re closed.” Shane says, for lack of anything else coming to mind.

A long second passes, Shane watches the farmer’s Adam’s apple bob, his jaw muscles tick in before flaring back out. He does an awkward sort of shuffle, then drops his head in a nod and sounds out, “My apologies—” And damn if his voice doesn’t send Shane’s spine into a fit of tingles all over again, “—A good day to you, then.”

Then he just… turns to leave, shoulders curling forwards in a dejected sort of wilt that has Shane grimacing. He sighs, head lolling to thump against the doorframe as he squeezes his eyes shut, “What’d you come to get?” He calls out.

The farmer keeps walking, and for a second Shane thinks he maybe didn’t hear him (which is nigh impossible; Shane isn’t exactly _quiet_), but then he stops and turns on his heels, straightens out his shoulders like he’s preparing himself for something. Shane can’t see the man’s eyes, but he gets the feeling that the farmer is looking _through _him rather than _at _him when he finally says, “Chickens.”

Shane can’t believe he’s going to do this.

Doesn’t know _why _he is, either.

He steps outside, thankful for the warmth provided by his hoodie as he pulls the door shut behind him and privately resigns himself to a bowl of soggy cereal, “You got any breed in particular you’re interested in?” They’ve only got Cochins, Sundheimers, and Faverolles on hand, but Marnie can always put in an express order if need be. Though, it may be a bit more expensive, given the time of year.

The farmer’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he settles on a simple, “None.” And Shane can pretty much guess from that that the farmer either didn’t realize until now that there are multiple breeds of chicken, or he just hadn’t thought that far ahead. Considering the extent of how stiff the man’s gone, Shane thinks it’s safe to assume an equal combination of the two.

A beginner, then.

Shane pushes away from the door, gesturing for the farmer to follow him towards the barn, “We’ll set you up with some Faverolles, then.” Smart, exuberant, absurdly friendly temperament even in roosters. There’s no other breed worth having, in Shane’s opinion—but given that his best and only friend is a chicken of said breed, Shane might be biased.

The farmer bobs his head once in confirmation and hums, apparently none too big on speaking unless strictly necessary, and trails after Shane like the world’s most eye-catching shadow.

“How many were you looking to buy?” Shane asks as he pushes the barn door open, stepping aside to let the farmer in ahead of him—more out of ingrained habit than any actual desire to be polite.

The farmer stops walking but doesn’t speak. Shane assumes he’s looking around the barn; taking in the stalls, the livestock.

He could also just be fucking weird.

The silence drags on for so long that Shane doesn’t know if the farmer is going to say anything, wonders if he’ll have to ask again like a jackass, then, finally, “Five.”

It’s like pulling teeth.

Shane brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, tells himself not to be rude—not while he’s dealing with one of Marnie’s potential customers, “Gender preferences?” He asks, once he’s sure he’s not going to snap at the man.

Another long stretch of silence.

Shane wonders if this is, perhaps, just how the farmer conducts conversations.

How positively _riveting_.

“Four hens. One rooster.” Each word is measured, clearly enunciated and delivered with the utmost care; the statement as a whole capped off with a polite, if slightly urgent, utterance of, “_Please_.” Like he doesn’t know how to end a request in any other way—is afraid to, even.

For somebody rumored to avoid human interaction at every turn, Shane thinks, the farmer is oddly insistent on remaining cordial.

Shane doesn’t comment on it, though—doesn’t really care enough to, doesn’t think he’d be able to say anything without being an asshole about it even if he did—just nods and leads the farmer through the barn to the chicken coop, and then through that to a smaller coop dedicated to incubation and hatching. The farmer’s timing, while not opportune (see: showing up when the shop is closed), is still relatively good; a batch of salmon Faverolles just hatched the week before last. A few more days, and they’d have started integrating them into the flock.

Shane leads the farmer over to them, plucking up a box by the door as he goes.

“Hens’ve got blue tags, roosters yellow.” Shane explains, gesturing vaguely towards the nesting box, tinted red-yellow from the heat lamp, “You care to pick ‘em yourself or you want me to choose?” He asks because it’s ingrained in him to, expected of him, even, after so many years of working retail.

“No preference.” The farmer hums, his response coming slightly quicker this time.

Shane reaches into the bag of wood shavings leaning against the wall, layering an inch or so in the bottom of his box, before turning back and gingerly transferring the requested number of chicks into the box. There are some heating packs warming on the shelf beside him; he grabs a couple of those and tucks them inside as well.

Chicks acquired, Shane leads the farmer back towards the house, putting together a mental list of all the things the farmer will probably need. He brings the farmer inside, setting the box of chicks down on the counter as he rounds it to station himself at the register. Marnie’s register is different from the ones they have at the JojaMart, and it’s been a while since he’s last manned it, so it takes him a moment to figure out what he’s doing.

While Shane fusses with the register, the farmer takes to perusing the small display of books by the door, and when he does finally wander over to the counter, it’s with a thick book on poultry care in hand. He sets it down on the counter beside the box of chittering Faverolles, and it seems like an appropriate time for Shane to ask, “What’ve you got in terms of supplies?”

The farmer seems to seize up a bit at the question, and Shane can already see the man doing his mental math, probably trying to figure out how to answer the question in as few words as possible. After an eternity, the farmer settles on saying, “Coop, heating lamps; bowls and the like.”

Shane is struck with the urge to grab the man by the shoulders and shake until a full sentence comes out.

_Marnie’s customer_, he reminds himself firmly.

“That leaves food and bedding,” Then—because the farmer may be buying a book on poultry care, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to take the time to actually _read _it—“Chickens don’t have teeth, so they need grit mixed in with their food to help in breaking it down. We carry crushed oyster shells, which helps to promote strong shells from your egg layers. If, down the line once your hens start laying, you’d like to save some money, crushed eggshells will work too—” Shane’s never been comfortable with doing that himself, though; the whole thing a tad too close to cannibalism for his taste. But, you know, in the interest of knowledge and all that, “—a lot of people also like to mix in cracked corn, but that’s optional.” He doesn’t tilt his speech at the end of the word, but he leaves it open like a question.

The farmer takes what Shane is beginning to think of as his customary five to ten seconds of silence.

“The corn as well, then.”

Shane doesn’t know why the farmer’s clipped responses agitate him so much, only that they do. It’s not like the man isn’t answering his questions. If anything, he’s _only _answering his questions, carefully cutting around any excess words until all that’s left is the bare minimum required to form a cohesive reply.

It’s an incredibly strange feeling, being annoyed at somebody for all the words they _aren’t _saying.

_Marnie’s customer_, he tells himself.

“Lastly, bedding. Hay and straw are fine for larger livestock, but you really want to be using wood shavings for rabbits and poultry. It’s easier to spot clean, doesn’t smell as much, and is generally a lot safer in terms of not becoming a hotbed for harmful bacteria.” It’s also softer, but that detail doesn’t seem nearly as important as the other three, “I’m setting you up with a compressed block that should last you two months at the very least, but if you’d like to try your hand at making your own after a while, try to stick to pine and stay _away_ from cedar and hardwoods.”

Shane can’t tell with the sunglasses whether or not the farmer is _actually _paying attention, but he’s bobbing his head dutifully, so Shane hopes he’s absorbing at least _some _of this.

By the time Shane has finished talking the farmer through the basics—a good grit-to-feed ratio, how often to clean out the coop, etc.—arranged for future feed deliveries, and rung the farmer’s purchases up, it’s closing in on eleven. The farmer looks pleased when Shane tells him they have a card reader, and promptly produces a debit card from the wallet he pulls from his back pocket.

_River M. Blackwater_, the name on the card reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love any and all feedback! Specifically, what do y'all think of my farmer? I wanted to do something different than a farmer who manically gives out gifts and runs around town trying to make friends with absolutely everybody, and I'm a sucker for the "two people who are broken in different ways figuring their shit out together" trope. I'm just hoping that River didn't come across as boring in this first chapter. My boy is... a special snowflake, so it will take Shane getting to know him before we get to see what's really going on with him.
> 
> (P.S. Sorry about Shane's chicken care info dump. I kept chickens for about seven years growing up, so, knowing Shane to be something of a poultry nerd, I couldn't not put some of my miscellaneous chicken knowledge to use. I have literally never needed it before for anything, so it was kind of exciting to be able to put it to use in my adult life. Sidenote: I now miss my flock of Faverolles, they were such funky little feather-babies ;-; )


	2. Winter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! These last few weeks I’ve been procrastinating by writing future chapters just because, until Shane and River warm up to each other, it’s just scene after scene of incredibly awkward encounters and, let me tell you, it is rough.
> 
> I swear, I spent at least ¾ of the time it took to write this chapter just staring at my word document in discomfort.
> 
> (I may or may not have also gotten incredibly sidetracked by the new update, adding about a hundred more hours of SDV gameplay to my steam account. Somebody send help.)
> 
> Anyways, Happy New Years y'all!

It’s fifteen degrees below freezing, the valley has just woken up to its first snowfall of the season—a little over three feet—and Shane is already miserable.

Somehow, he’d gotten roped into checking in on the farmer.

Well.

Shane says ‘roped in’ like it’d been some sort of inescapable trap or something, says ‘somehow’ like he’s no idea how it happened, but, really, he’s just incredibly bad at saying no to Marnie.

Not that he’d even really tried to.

She’d asked; he’d sighed and murmured an affirmative into his coffee.

He’d seen it coming a mile away, too. The whole time the pair of them had been shoveling out the yard, she’d been fretting over how their new neighbor was fairing. Really, it was only a matter of time before she’d ask.

So, after he’s chugged his coffee and stuffed some dry cereal down his throat, Shane bundles up and begins the long, grueling walk to Lyre Farm.

* * *

Making his way up through the south facing entrance of Lyre Farm, it’s readily obvious to Shane that nobody has tended to the property in at least a decade, maybe longer.

The Lyre Farm of Shane’s memories—glimpses caught whenever his parents had sent him to stay with Marnie as a child and he’d inevitably wandered off, occasionally finding himself on the neighboring property—had always been overgrown, but it had always seemed so neatly done and intentional. Back then, the forest had been used as a border; thick foliage carved out into neat little fields and pastures so as to delegate specific areas to specific tasks, all interconnected with branching dirt roads.

The Lyre farm of today is overgrown in a different way—almost entirely absorbed by greenery, buried in brambles and shrubbery.

Taken back by the nature rather than living peacefully alongside it.

It takes Shane was feels like ages to navigate the patchy land, and, more than once, he finds himself wandering in circles. By the time he finally lays eyes on the main house, his nose is raw and running and his toes feel frozen in his boots.

The massive cabin that once housed the Morrows family has been left to rot, half consumed by foliage and held together by nails and a prayer. The front porch is collapsed on one side, the chimney is only half there, and there isn’t a window in sight that hasn’t been boarded up.

At the very least, what’s left of the porch has been cleared of snow, and the area in front of the steps has been shoveled out, so the farmer’s probably still alive—or was, a few hours ago, or whenever it was that he’d shoveled.

The doorbell, predictably, doesn’t work, so Shane resigns himself to knocking and lifts a hand to rap his frozen knuckles against the splintered door.

Nothing happens, at first, so Shane knocks again.

After a third knock, the doorknob jiggles a little, then slowly—carefully—the door cracks open just barely more than half a foot.

Shane makes eye contact with a clothed torso—white fabric stretched over toned muscle, thin enough that Shane can just barely make out the colorful whorls of the farmer’s tattoos. Shane looks up slowly, ends up having to crane his goddamn neck just to level his gaze with the icy silver-blue irises peeking through the crack in the door.

“Uhhh…” Shane begins awkwardly, opting to instead make eye contact with the moth tattoo wrapped around the farmer’s throat, the patterning on its body and unfurled wings eerily reminiscent of a human skull, which isn't unsettling at all, “My, uh, my aunt wanted me to check up on you, make sure you’re doing alright after last night.”

There’s a long stretch of silence before, “…last…night?”

Shane hazards a glance back towards the farmer’s face—finds the man staring at him with scrunched brows and a cute little frown, looking for all the world like he hasn’t the slightest clue what Shane could possibly be talking about.

Shane lets his usually gruffness overtake his nervousness, allows his brows to furrow, his mouth to mimic the farmer’s frown as he says, “The blizzard? It’s the first snow of the year and it’s a lot heavier than usual, so Marnie wanted me to make sure you were alright—see if you needed any help or anything?”

“…’m alright,” The farmer murmurs, and for a second Shane thinks he must’ve imagined it, because the response was nigh instantaneous, rather than the culmination of fifteen seconds of stilted silence that he’d gotten used to, “Thank you.”

Shane jostles his hands in his pockets, “Look, can I come in or something? It’s freezing out here.” Read; _I did not walk all this way only to turn back immediately_. Read further; _I cannot feel my fucking toes._

Blackwater hesitates, and for a second Shane thinks that the man is going to politely tell him to go fuck himself, but then he’s stepping back, pulling the door open with him. Shane shuffles after him, knocking his boots off on the lip of the door more out of habit than any inclination of politeness.

The inside of the house is dark—lit only by the fire crackling in the living room hearth and a candle on the kitchen table—but delightfully warm compared to the wintery landscape Shane had spent the last forty-five minutes traversing.

As Shane’s eyes adjust to the change in lighting, he notices that the house it not nearly as run down on the inside as it is on the outside. Sure, there’s hardly any furniture at all, but the hardwood floor is recently placed and freshly lacquered, as is the paneling over the walls. There’s an old sleeping bag and pillow on the living room floor a few feet away from the fireplace where it seems the farmer has been sleeping, and, curled up and sleeping on the floor a few feet away from that, is a large chocolate Labrador.

Nestled in tight around the dog is a collection of very familiar, very content looking chickens.

Shane must look at them for too long, because soon the farmer is murmuring, “…too cold.”

“Huh?” Shane asks, turning to find Blackwater standing awkwardly by the kitchen table, arms folded protectively across his stomach. The man is dressed for sleep, still, in a soft grey pair of checkered sweatpants that are far too big for him and a long-sleeved white shirt that hangs loosely over his lanky frame. His hair is pulled into a lopsided bun, mussed and matted in places—probably from extended contact with a pillow.

Blackwater clears his throat, eyes flickering quickly from Shane to the animals to the floor, “Felt too cold in the coop; brought them inside to be safe.” He explains, looking uncomfortable, and Shane thinks it’s probably the closest thing to a proper sentence that he’s ever gotten out of the man.

Before Shane can respond, Blackwater is turning away, padding further into the kitchen towards the stove. He fetches a match from a box on the counter and uses it to ignite the pilot light, then shakes it out, depositing it in a little ceramic dish. Shane watches, curious, as the man opens one of the overhead cupboards and fetches an old kettle, filling it with water from an old gallon jug and placing it on the stove, “Is tea alright?”

The question catches Shane off-guard, “Tea, uh- yeah, tea’s fine.” A more courteous guest might have said, ‘_you don’t have to do that_,’ but Shane’s far too cold to even consider turning down a warm drink right now- even if it _is _tea (Shane’s never been particularly fond of tea), even if it _does _mean that he’ll have to spend the time it takes to make the beverage standing in awkward silence with Blackwater.

“You, ah, you sure you don’t want my help with anything while I’m here?” Shane asks, because Marnie will have his hide if he doesn’t.

_Please say no_.

Blackwater stills, reaches up to thumb at the corner of his jaw, then, still not looking at Shane, he murmurs something at the countertop. The only words Shane manages to catch are ‘gone,’ ‘look,’ and ‘chickens.’

“…come again?”

The farmer’s shoulders rise, fingers fumbling together. His back is still turned, head is still bowed, when he tries again, “I’m going to be… away… for the next few weeks.” Shane doesn’t really know what to say to that—doesn’t know how it’s at all connected to his offer, but then Blackwater is turning around slowly, forcing his eyes up from the floor to meet Shane’s, “The chickens will need to be looked after.” The man clears his throat, shuffles awkwardly, eyes darting back to the floor, “I would pay you for your trouble.”

Shane probably would have done it for free (because chickens), even if he did grouse about it, but the mention of payment has him perking, saying, “Yeah, sure- I can do that. Just… drop them off at Marnie’s before you leave. We’ve got coop we’re not using right now; they can stay there until you come back.”

Blackwater looks at him for a moment, gaze wobbling—like he’s physically _forcing himself_ to maintain eye contact, and just barely succeeding—then pulls in a long breath and jerks his head in a nod before turning back to the stove as the kettle starts to whistle. As Blackwater fetches a mug from the counter and begins to fix the tea, Shane looks away, letting his gaze wander the space once more.

There’s a beanbag occupying the space on the other side of the dog, stacked beside it a small tower of books, at the very top of which is the guidebook that Blackwater had bought from Marnie’s on poultry care. It’s been little over two weeks since the farmer’s visit, but the book’s spine is already shot, the glossy cover curled upwards from frequent reading. On the other side of the beanbag, mostly out of Shane’s line of sight, is a small wicker handbasket that looks to be filled with balls of yarn.

“Sugar?” Blackwater’s voice carries from the kitchen; a low, nervous rumble that settles comfortably in the pit of Shane’s stomach despite his best wishes.

Shane pulls in a deep breath, annoyed with himself—with the part of himself he can’t control that seems to latch onto the sound of the farmer’s voice, despite how uncomfortable being subjected to the man’s stunted social skills makes him, “Sure,” he breathes.

There’s the distant sound of a metal spoon clinking against porcelain as Shane’s eyes move over the slew of old Morrows family pictures that have been taken down from the walls—presumably in order for them to be redone—and propped up against the far wall of the living room beside stacks of boxes. He doesn’t see Blackwater in any of them, but there is a woman in a handful of photos that Shane thinks must be Blackwater’s mother.

Her features are softer, more rounded, and she lacks Blackwater’s coloration and height, but the similarities between the two are striking; the shape of their eyes, the height of their cheekbones, the slope of their noses. In contrast to Blackwater, though, the woman seems entirely comfortable in her own skin—leaning lazily against other family members in nearly every picture she appears in, a mischievous smile curling at the corners of her mouth, pulling a single dimple into prominence.

A throat clears beside Shane.

Blackwater had approached him while he was looking elsewhere, padding up beside him silently. His eyes are fixed on Shane’s collar, one arm extended, offering out a mug of tea.

“Thanks,” Shane murmurs, accepting the mug.

Blackwater straightens and steps away, “You can stay however long you like. I’m going to-” he makes a few aborted hand movements, “That is- I-” A low, frustrated whine bubbles up the back of the man’s throat, a brilliant shade of crimson rising to color his cheeks, “Excuse me.” He manages finally before ducking his head and speed walking towards the door, barely slowing down to pluck up a pair of snow boots—doesn’t even attempt to put them on—before absconding outside.

Shane finds himself chuckling as he lifts the mug to his lips, amused despite himself. After he’s taken a few swallows of the beverage—he doesn’t know what kind of tea it is, but it isn’t nearly as bad as Shane had been expecting—he wanders over to the window which, though boarded up, can still be seen through.

Outside is Blackwater, barefoot still, crouched down in the snow, his arms pulled protectively over his head as he curls in on himself. A muffled, miserable groan graces the open air, and Shane’s probably a terrible person for it, but he can’t help it- he _laughs_.

Blackwater must hear it, because he shoots up and storms out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse eats comments
> 
> Feed her, plz.


	3. Winter III

The farmer never comes back inside.

Part of Shane feels kind of guilty—like he’s chased the man from his own home—but the other part of him just sort of… accepts it. Maybe Shane would feel bad if the guy was out there freezing to death or something, but in the time that Shane’s been inside, nursing his tea, Blackwater’s taken to shoveling out the rest of the main drive, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking entirely unconcerned by the cold.

Shane is beginning to notice a trend, in that.

Once Shane has drained his tea, he crosses the floorspace to set his mug down in the kitchen sink. He doubts the water will run—Blackwater likely wouldn’t have a stack of milk crates in the corner filled with gallon jugs of water if it did—and, sure as expected, when Shane lays a hand on the knob and attempts to run the sink, nothing happens.

_Well_, he thinks_, it was worth a shot._

Not seeing anymore reason to stick around, Shane shrugs his discarded jacket back on and steps outside. Blackwater—who’s back is to the door—either doesn’t hear him or is ignoring him. Given that the man’s stance seemed to stiffen as he stepped outside, Shane leans towards the latter.

Shane considers saying something, _‘thanks for the tea’ _or something equally lame, but, really, he’s not in the mood for such congenialities. (_You’re never in the mood for congenialities_, a voice in his head reminds him.) So, he just pulls his hood back up as he makes his way down the steps, stuffing his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his parka and resigning himself to another long, cold walk.

He’s just passing Blackwater by, giving the man a wide berth, when he hears a low, “…Thank you.”

Shane turns to look towards the farmer, brows furrowing. The man is no longer shoveling—is instead standing with his shovel sticking vertically out of the snow, hands folded primly over the handle, shoulders bunched—but his back is still very much to Shane.

Blackwater sniffs, and, as if able to sense Shane’s oncoming question, goes on to clarify, “For thinking to check on me.” He shifts backwards and angles his head towards Shane, just so; enough to acknowledge him, but not enough for Shane to be anything but a blur in the corner of his vision, “Unwarranted as your concern is, it…” A pause, and Shane doesn’t know how he does, but he just _knows _that Blackwater is doing that thing with his eyes where he can’t seem to keep them fixed on any one point. Finally, the man turns his body the rest of the way, gaze rising to Shane’s, “…it is appreciated all the same.”

The look in Blackwaters eyes—shame, resignation, and something else—catches Shane off guard, grips him in his place, has him shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, “...Yeah, man, no- uh- no problem.” He swallows, pushing his hands deeper in his pockets.

Hours later, when Shane falls into bed that evening, pleasantly buzzed, the look on Blackwater’s face in that moment will be the last clear image his mind conjures before sleep takes him.

* * *

When Blackwater shows up at Marnie’s with his flock three days later, it’s as if his little social breakdown never happened. The man is calm, cool, collected; the epitome of refined elegance as he sweeps into the store with some sort of newfound charisma. He speaks clearly—sentences just as clipped as before, unfortunately—maintains eye contact when necessary, doesn’t loom so much as he glides behind Shane as he follows him through the yard to the coop his flock will be residing in.

There’s something deeply, gut-twistingly _wrong _about it, though.

There’s still a light behind his eyes, however dim, but he doesn’t quite seem _present_. In fact, the man’s expression is so carefully neutral that it toes the line of complete _vacancy._

It’s like… like—

The lights are on, but nobody’s home.

Marnie, who’s had her own handful of encounters with the farmer by now, doesn’t seem to notice anything off about his behavior at all, and Shane realizes with a fair bit of whiplash that this- this is how Blackwater had acted during their first two encounters. Shane hadn’t noticed, then, had been too wrapped up in how uncomfortable he’d been to realize just how empty the man had seemed.

He’d thought— he’d been _certain _that there’d been something different about Blackwater, that day on Lyre Farm, something off, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Now, though, now that Blackwater’s back to what is, apparently, his usual self, the change seems glaringly obvious.

He’d spoken more—Shane recalls at least one full sentence being involved—with less delay between responses (even if it had meant pausing more between words to finish formulating what it was he’d been trying to say), he hadn’t been able to keep his gaze locked on any particular point, let alone Shane’s face. He’d been quick to emote where he’d previously only shown the most minute of micro expressions.

He’d been- _vulnerable_, or something approaching it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be short, but don't fear! This is part one of a double update. The next chapter was originally going to be a part of this chapter (hence why this one seems to cut off awkwardly), but the two parts didn't really fit together all that well thematically, so I decided to separate them. Both chapters will be kind of short because of this, but I find I'm much happier for it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think ;)


	4. Winter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're coming here via email alert, this is part two of a double update :)

When Haley approaches Shane at the Feast of the Winter Star with a giftwrapped package in her hands and a sour, “Hey,” His first thought is that somebody fucked up. Shane’s already gotten his gift—a Tunnellers letterman jacket from Robin—and there’s literally no other reason that Haley would ever, _ever_, approach Shane of her own free will.

He tells her as much (the first part, that is- he doesn’t have a death wish, thanks).

“I can see that.” The blond supplies with a false note of cheer and a smile that’s more canines than lip. Her face falls as she shoves the package towards him, “It’s for Jas. Riv got her for the gift exchange, but he’s obviously not here, so.”

Shane fumbles to hold onto the box—lighter than it looks; a bit bigger than a square foot wrapped in glossy dark blue paper with tiny white stars on it, bound with a thick yellow bow—and echoes, dumbly, “Riv?” Haley gives him a look like he’s, quite possibly, the biggest fool she’s ever met, “I didn’t realize his name was in the hat.” He tacks on hastily in a valiant attempt to throw her off the trail of his idiocy.

Haley scoffs, shoving her hands into her pockets and leaning back against the buffet table beside him, hair glimmering golden under the streetlights, “All apart of Mayor Lewis’ brilliant plan to integrate him into the community.”

“Well that’s going great.”

The twenty-three-year-old rolls her eyes, “Tell me about it. Guy just wants to be left alone.”

Shane raises a brow, “He doesn’t seem to mind your company.”

“Yeah but I didn’t force him to endure it. We just— both spend a lot of time in Cindersap, is all.” Haley digs her hands further into her pockets, nestles her chin into the soft knit scarf pooling around her neck, “Show you’re interested and leave him to himself, he’ll come around—keep accosting him, trying to force him to talk, only thing he’s gonna do is run away.” A deep, wearied sigh, “You’d think people would’ve figured that out by now.”

Shane opens his mouth—to say what, he doesn’t know—but is interrupted as Jas crashes into him, “Did you know they’re doing fireworks this year?!” She chirps excitedly, hands fisting the hem of his jacket.

“No kidding?” Shane can’t help the soft smile that finds his face at his goddaughter’s excitement. She’s dressed up pretty for the occasion in her favorite dress; dark purple, bisected at the waist with a thick white bow, puffy skirt dusted with silver glitter that grows thicker the closer to the hemline it gets. Her hair has been (somewhat) tamed, separated into a pair of chunky braids.

“Yeah! Sambastigale and Maru convinced Mr. Lewis to let us have them so long as Demetrius supervises. They’re setting them up by the river!” Shane, to this day, doesn’t know when or why Jas began referring to the trio by the singular ‘_Sambastigale_,’ and he is honestly beyond trying to train her out of it. To her credit, it’s much less of a mouthful than it is to list them individually, and the three _are _together more often than not.

It’s also, frankly, hilarious.

“Cool. Hey-” Shane hands down Jas’ gift, “Haley came to drop this off for you, it’s from the farmer but he’s out of town for the holiday so she agreed to—” When he looks up to Haley, he finds the space she’d be occupying vacant, which– is really, just like her. She’s never not been uncomfortable when it comes to dealing with children. Probably why she’d given the gift to Shane in the first place, “—deliver it for him.”

Jas’ already massive doe eyes widen as she accepts the package delicately.

“It’s so pretty!” She declares, awestruck, her tiny fingers gently skimming the shimmery wrapping paper. She looks up to Shane after a long moment, conflicted, “I don’t wanna rip it.”

“Aw, but that’s half the fun,” Shane teases, grinning.

Jas frowns, unamused.

Shane sighs, reaches to pull a chair out from the table. He bends down, plucks his goddaughter up by the waist and places her on the chair before crouching before her, folding his hands over her knees, “You’ll just have to be careful, then.”

Jas looks at him for a moment then nods, determined, and sets about her task. She daintily undoes the ribbon, setting it aside atop the table, and carefully peels at the tape. The paper’s glossiness allows for easy removal, thankfully, and it’s thick enough not to rip too easily. Jas manages to unfold the paper cleanly, leaving just a plain cardboard box on her lap. The box, too, is taped shut, and Shane allows Jas to try and pick at it for a few moments before he pulls his lanyard from his pocket and cuts it open with his house keys.

Jas looks up to him, nose scrunching cutely as she smiles.

Shane returns it, nods encouragingly towards the box.

Bottom lip sucked into her mouth, Jas carefully pulls back the folds of the box and pushes aside the white tissue paper that rises up in their wake. When she pushes enough of it aside, she gasps, her eyes growing wide—and Shane can _see _the little stars forming in them.

“What is it?” Shane asks, shifting on the balls of his feet as his quads begin to burn from remaining crouched so long, “What’d you get?”

Slowly, Jas reaches down into the box and pulls out a plush toy. It’s light blue, shaped vaguely like an apple—or maybe a small pumpkin—with a cute little face complete with button eyes and blush marks, noodle-y black arms and legs, and a thin stem sprouting from the center of its head, topped with a small blue leaf.

Shane can’t tell what the toy is supposed to be, but whatever it is, it’s incredibly well made.

“I love it.” Jas declares, whispered, as she hugs it tightly to her chest.

_Thank you_, Shane thinks, conjuring an image of Blackwater in his mind.

What he says is, “Let’s go show Marnie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally planned for River to get Shane's name, but then I was playing Stardew and I got Jas as my secret gift giver and realized "Holy shit kids are on the list?!" (don't ask me why I thought they weren't) and after that the only thing I could think of was River getting Jas' name and giving her a Junimo plush.


	5. Year Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all of the beautiful comments you left on the last chapter! I cannot tell you how happy it made me to wake up, check my email, and see my inbox flooded by all your lovely words!

Blackwater returns to the valley on a Tuesday—or, at least, it’s on a Tuesday that he shows up outside Marnie’s to retrieve his flock.

The knock on the door comes relatively early in the morning while Shane is eating breakfast, bringing with it a certain sense of déjà vu. Marnie’s out taking care of the animals, so Shane tosses his half-eaten slice of toast onto his plate and pushes himself up from the kitchen table, wiping his hands off on the thighs of his jeans as he makes his way over to the door.

As predicted, it’s Blackwater who stands on the other side of it.

“Good morning.” The farmer greets him with the same distant sort of politeness that Shane’s come to realize is normal for him.

“Hey,” Shane tosses back as he steps outside, pulling his zip-up closed around his midsection.

It may be the beginnings of spring, but the air is far from warm.

The farmer looks more put together than usual, Shane thinks. His clothes—a pale purple button-up with the sleeves turned up at the elbows, open to the fourth button (damn him), tucked into a pair of tight black jeans split with little fraying patches on their thighs—actually seem to fit him today. His hair hangs in a loose braid pulled over his shoulder, held together by a thin black hairband.

Unfortunately, his mirrored aviators have made a re-appearance.

“You here to pick up your girls?”

“I’d hope to be collecting my rooster as well.” The tone of the farmer’s voice doesn’t change, nor does his facial expression, and Shane doesn’t think Blackwater _meant it_ to be a joke, but-

It catches Shane off-guard all the same, punches a good-humored chuckle out of him, “Naturally.” He moves past Blackwater, waving for him to follow, “They started laying while you were gone,” Shane tells him as they walk, “Marnie set the eggs aside for you if you want them.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Comes Blackwater’s typically belated response, and, after a few more seconds, a polite, “Thank you, though.”

“Don’t worry about it.” And then, because Shane feels like he has to, and because he needs just fucking say something before he chickens out, “Thanks, by the way.” His words are, predictably, met with silence, and, when Shane glances back towards the farmer out of his periphery, he sees the smallest of confused frowns tugging at his lips.

Shane clears his throat, tries again, “The plush toy you gave Jas for Winter Star. She adores it—takes it almost everywhere she goes. So, thanks.”

A little huff sounds from the farmer, when Shane hazards a glance, there’s a wobbly quality to his mouth, the kind that comes from trying to suppress a smile, “I am…” He begins slowly, lips curling subtly at the corners as he speaks out the side of his mouth. Of course, the only thing Shane’s lizard brain picks up is– _dimples_, _he has little dimples when he smiles_, “glad to hear it. I wasn’t sure of her interests.”

That was two grammatically correct sentences in a span of fifteen seconds.

_Hell yeah._

Shane decides to take that and quit while he’s ahead, and lets the conversation taper off there, before the farmer reaches his social limit and clams up. He doesn’t exactly know why he’s doing it—why he suddenly cares so much about being conscious of Blackwater’s social discomfort. Shane just knows that- that- that whenever Blackwater’s around, he’s in command of every ounce of his attention, and- and Shane doesn’t know what that means, can’t figure out if what he’s feeling is purely sexual interest or the beginnings of a crush or if it’s just been way too long since he’s had any friends (doubtful, he usually doesn’t want to fuck his friends), but.

But this weird claim Blackwater has over Shane’s attention doesn’t seem like it’s going to be going away anytime soon, so he might as well try to make something out it. As for what that something will be, well-

He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

“Mr. Blackwater! Good morning!” Marnie chirps, beaming, as Shane leads Blackwater into the coop where they’ve been keeping his flock. Blackwater’s rooster is perched on Marnie’s shoulder like a parakeet, his hens gathered in a swarm at her feet. Clasped in Marnie’s hands—the source of their excitement—is a container of dried mealworms.

“Hullo.” Blackwater greets, raising one hand in a small wave.

“How was your holiday?” Marnie asks pleasantly, as she presses the lid back onto the container of dried mealworms and sets it aside. The rooster jumps off her shoulder, flaps his wings as he angles himself to land atop the container, begins pecking at the lid.

Meanwhile, Blackwater’s body has gone still in Shane’s periphery.

When he hazards a glance, he can see the muscles of the man’s jaw fluttering, “Fine.” His answer is sharp, decisive, final- laced with thinly veiled anger. It’s the first time since meeting the farmer that Shane can ever recall hearing his tone anything other than pleasant.

Marnie’s smile goes stiff.

Blackwater pulls in a slow breath, adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, and exhales, “It was fine.” He reiterates calmly, and if Shane hadn’t known better—hadn’t literally just witnessed how blatantly _not fine_ it had been—he wouldn’t have blinked twice at the response.

“Well,” Marnie says, sounding breathless as she tries to will her smile back into place. Her efforts are only half successful; her mouth forms a smile, but her eyes convey fear, “That’s… good to hear.”

“Quite.” The farmer replies, eerily serene.

Marnie promptly excuses herself.

There are a few seconds of silence after Marnie pulls the coop door closed behind her, and then Blackwater’s posture is deflating. He works his jaw, pursing and biting at his lips for a moment before he opens his mouth, his words, when they come, emerging small and mournful, “I didn’t mean to scare her.” And Shane is probably the worlds _shittiest _human being, because here Blackwater is, agonizing over accidentally scaring Shane’s Aunt, and the only thing Shane can think is-

_This is the closest thing to a chance you're ever going to get._

Except Shane doesn’t know what to say—it’s been a long time since he’s had to comfort _anybody, _let alone somebody who’s practically a stranger—so he settles on a careful, “I know.”

“I forget myself, sometimes,” Blackwater- _River_, confides, his voice a low, pleasant rumble, “-forget my size, what I look like; how scary it can make me.”

Scary isn’t exactly the word Shane would use to describe the farmer, but he can easily see how the man can come across as intimidating. Shane was pretty intimidated himself, until he realized that inside that seven-foot albino monolith was a deeply awkward, socially terrified puppy.

Somehow, Shane doesn’t think pointing that out will make Blackwater feel any better.

“I can talk to her about it later, if you’d like?” Shane offers.

Blackwater inhales deeply, reaching up to slide his sunglasses off his face and tuck them into the breast pocket of his shirt. He exhales, then turns his head to look to Shane. There are dark bags beneath his eyes and even as he speaks his lids are drooping, tired, “Please?” He brings a hand up and rubs at the bridge of his nose, at one of the indents left behind by his glasses, “I’m afraid I’d only make her uncomfortable.”

Shane huffs, “Honestly, I think you startled her more than you scared her. You’re usually so… timid.”

Blackwater exhales once, sharply, through his nose, “I’m afraid I’m far too tired to be concerned with my own social misgivings.”

“I know the feeling.” Shane sympathizes, and then, because, oddly social mood or not, he still doesn’t want to push his luck, “C’mon, let’s get your girls rounded up.”

The farmer lets out an exhausted breath, then moves to help Shane collect his scattered flock, “I don’t appreciate your consistent misgendering of my cock.”

Shane chokes on his own spit. When he looks to Blackwater, the man raises a solitary brow, face otherwise completely deadpan. Shane ignores the flush clouding his cheeks as he recovers and tries to salvage his dignity with a scoff, “Yeah? Well, too bad. Majority rules.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter.... went in an entirely different direction than it was supposed to. River and Shane weren't supposed to talk nearly as much, nor be so comfortable with each other, but, while writing this chapter, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make River behave as his "usual" (read: how he behaves with strangers) self without it seeming forced. So, I guess we'll be getting to the 'friends' bit of their relationship a _bit_ sooner than expected. Don't worry, though, this story is still going to be an incredibly slow burn. 
> 
> Like, I'm sorry in advance for how slow it's gonna be. River is not an easy man to woo.
> 
> On the topic of wooing, I really really really wanted Shane to be the one to make an effort to reach out in this fic. In almost every Shane/Farmer fic I've read, it's the farmer who's persistently pursuing Shane, usually much to his chagrin, until he eventually gives up and comes out of his shell. I thought it would be interesting to see the dynamic swapped, to see Shane make an effort to come out of his shell in order to gently coax somebody else out of theirs.
> 
> I'm a bit nervous that the mood of this chapter is too all-over-the-place whiplash-y (I also feel like Shane might've been a bit out of character?), so if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts, be it regarding that or anything else!


	6. Spring II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive update gap! I may or may not have been kidnapped by the Three Houses fandom after the Cindered Shadows DLC dropped, prompting my fourth playthough of the game. After two Azure Moons and a Verdant Wind, I finally started Crimson Flower and have since fallen in love with Princess Fuck-The-Church and Marquis Murder-Pants, which was literally the one thing I told myself I wouldn't do. (It took, like, not even an hour. I'm so weak.) <strike>Somebody send help.</strike>
> 
> Anyways- back on topic.
> 
> This chapter is rather short, pretty much filler/buffer, but I'm hoping to update again tomorrow with Shane and River's next encounter and, depending on how things go IRL, hopefully once more the day after that with a chapter covering the first festival of the season.

Shane talks to Marnie after Blackwater leaves.

As he suspected, she hadn’t so much been scared of Blackwater himself as she’d been startled by his sudden shift in demeanor. After so many interactions consisting solely of soft-spoken propriety, Shane can hardly blame her for being shaken by the sudden spike of aggression. By the time the conversation was over, it was _Marnie _who was feeling bad, fretting that she’d, in her surprise, hurt their neighbor’s feelings—which, yes, Shane thinks she might’ve, a little, but that should hardly be her main concern.

But, whatever, at least that’s been taken care of.

-Only, apparently it isn’t, because Marnie bustles into the kitchen the next morning with a gigantic hand-woven basket in hand and an even bigger smile, “Mr. Blackwater stopped by.” She tells Shane in a singsong, conspiratorial tone, like that’s something that he should find deeply interesting. And, alright, maybe it _is_, but he doesn’t appreciate being _called out on it_, thanks.

“Mmm?” Shane hums around a mouthful of everything-bagel, trying his best to look uninterested even though he’s Deeply Curious.

“Poor dear was so nervous,” Marnie chirps fondly as she sets the basket down on the table. It’s bedded with straw, filled an assortment of jellies, jams, pickles, and preserves, “I think he was just expecting to drop the basket at the stoop and leave. When he realized I was outside— I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person’s eyes go so wide!” She chitters joyously, reaching down to adjust the red gingham bow tied around the body of the basket.

Shane finishes chewing, swallows, props his elbow on the table and drops his chin into the heel of his hand, “So, it’s an apology basket for yesterday, or…?”

“Well, I do think that was his intention, though he didn’t really _say _as much—just handed me the basket, nodded, and left.”

Shane huffs, because, yeah, that sounds more like the Blackwater he knows. With his free hand he reaches out to parse through the basket, brows furrowing when he notices a piece of cardstock stuck between the jars. He leans forwards to retrieve it and—

“What’s that you’ve found?” Marnie asks, attention pulling away from the bow.

_My sincerest apologies for yesterday’s behavior, _the little card declares in neat cursive letters. The signature that follows is largely illegible, but given that the first, middle, and last initials are an overly large R, M, and B, respectively, Shane’s willing to bet it’s signed _River M. Blackwater_. He huffs, amused, and wordlessly holds the little card out to Marnie with one hand as he returns to his breakfast with the other.

“I suspected as much before,” Marnie begins, tucking the little piece of cardstock back into the basket, “But now I really do think that Mr. Blackwater’s just shy.”

_Whatever gave you that idea? _Shane thinks dryly as he takes another bite of his bagel.

“A shame,” Marnie sighs as she scoops the basket up to walk it over to the counter, “But I suppose I can see why.”

Shane frowns, brows furrowing, and asks, mouth full, “Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’ mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know much,” He hears Marnie sigh from her place behind him as she makes space for the basket on the counter, “Only what Lewis has told me—that after Michael passed, his mother ended up in Matruvé, married a ‘vellian, started a family. It’s winter year-round there, did you know? All mountains and forest, some tundra- very hard place to live; practically non-existent population. Boy probably never learned how to deal with strangers.”

Matruvellian, huh? Well, that explains... that explains a lot, actually.

“Hmn.” Shane grunts in lieu of an actual answer, brushing poppyseeds from the uneven growth around his mouth with the back of his hand. He really should shave, but his razorblade is dull and Joja Mart doesn’t carry blades on their own—only way to get extras is to buy a whole new razor—and Shane absolutely _refuses _to do that, because razors are goddamn _expensive _and he’s already got a perfectly good one, thanks.

(<strike>He should probably just suck it up; his spite-beard is getting a bit out of hand</strike>.)

Jas chooses that moment to wander into the kitchen, clad in too-big socks that sag around her ankles and a pale-yellow nightgown, her hair a wild bramble of snarls. Dangling from one hand by the arm is Blue, the plush toy she’d gotten from Blackwater for Winter Star. She yawns and murmurs a sleepy good morning as she climbs into a seat at the table, depositing Blue at her place setting.

She takes one look at Shane and her features crinkle, “You’ve got cream cheese in your mustache.”

Shane stares her down as he takes another bite of his bagel, purposefully angling it so as to maximize the amount of food to be distributed into his facial hair.

The girl’s nose scrunches, a distressed sound curling up the back of her throat as she mimes gagging. Her lips are turned up at the corners, though, so.

Shane counts it as a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated! (Seriously, thank you all so much for all of your wonderful words!!! They mean the world to me <3)


	7. Spring III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs roses when you've got rhubarb seeds?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Shane even in-character anymore? I honestly have no idea.
> 
> (Because in-game Shane’s super grumpy and rude at first, but only really because he’s annoyed that this random stranger keeps trying to talk to him. So like, remove the annoyance factor and turn the tables so he’s the one trying to talk to a random stranger, and what are you left with besides a sad awkward chicken man? Idk, I’ve been writing LDV for long enough that my Shane feels like it’s overtaken cannon)

After Shane gets out of work, rather than settling down in his usual seat at the Stardrop for the night, he finds himself making the walk to Lyre Farm.

He doesn’t really have any concrete intentions, or even an excusable reason to go there. He just- he wants to see Blackwater, is all.

…God, that sounds lame even in his head.

It’s just- look.

Blackwater doesn’t exactly leave his property much. Shane can’t just strategically position himself about town in a valiant attempt to completely-on-accident bump into the man. (Believe him, Shane wishes he could. He could at least _pretend _to have a little bit of dignity, that way. But no, the object of his as-of-yet unspecified affections has to be a reclusive bastard on top of unfairly attractive and unreasonably tall.)

So, Shane needs to make his own opportunities- even if his own opportunities are… decidedly less than subtle.

His plan, flimsy as it is, is this;

After his shift, he purchased half a dozen packets of rhubarb seeds. Pierre’s doesn’t sell rhubarb seeds and Joja- Joja usually doesn’t. But the store just celebrated its third anniversary, so, for just this month, they’re carrying more products than usual in celebration, with prices marked down throughout the store.

Except—according to Katrin—Blackwater only shops at Joja once every other month. Since his last shopping trip was the morning after his return to the valley (which fell on the tail end of last month, about a week and a half ago), it’s safe to assume that Blackwater won’t be back to Joja before the anniversary sale ends, so…

Rhubarb.

Shane doesn’t know how Blackwater feels about rhubarb, but, as far as excuses to visit the man go, this was one of the few Shane could think of. So, Shane will lie, spew some crap about a customer loyalty reward or something, give Blackwater the rhubarb seeds and feel generally shitty about his deception, but Shane’s a generally shitty person, so that all checks out.

As far as plans go, it’s not great- not even _good_, but-

It’s all Shane’s got, so.

It’ll have to do.

XXX

Once Shane has made his way onto the main property, it’s relatively easy to find Blackwater—he just follows the sound of hammering.

The sun has already mostly set, bathing Lyre Farm in shadows, but several pole lights have been installed on the property since his last visit, serving to illuminate the grounds well enough for Shane to be able to navigate.

He follows the branching dirt road that maps the farm with uncontained curiosity, finding himself charmed by exactly how much has changed since winter.

The forest, while still plentiful, no longer overtakes the land. The brush has been trimmed back neatly, the wheatgrass that had, upon Shane’s last visit, been buried in snow, has been removed completely, the earth it once occupied home to fresh green chutes of grass.

Tappers and little wooden bird houses of various shapes and sizes can be found littered through the trees deeper into the wood line, and signs have been posted every once and a while to direct one towards different patches of land—labeled with names like _Meadow, Aviary, _and _Pond _in the same pretty, flowing script that Blackwater’s apology card had been written in.

Shane follows the distant sound of hammering until he finds himself turning down a small side road, the sign at it’s turn-off declaring it the way towards the main barn.

Another three minutes, and Shane’s wandering into a clearing where he finds Blackwater’s shadowy silhouette perched in the rafters of a building still in the early stages of construction, working under the light of a lantern hanging from the ridge board of what will, eventually, be the building’s roof.

The chocolate lab pacing the length of the building perks up when Shane enters the clearing, barks once before running over to greet him, tail wagging. The animal’s movements are clumsy and jolly as it prances excited circles around Shane on legs like stilts, looking for all the world like a colt that’s only recently gotten a handle on walking.

Shane offers his hand to the dog to scent, hazarding a scratch behind its ears after it licks his fingers in playful greeting.

In Shane’s periphery, the lantern hanging from the ridge board goes out.

When he looks up, it’s to see Blackwater lowering himself down from the rafters, agile as a cat. The man wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he paces over to Shane, out of the shadows and into the glow of the pole-light struck into the earth at the end of the road.

“_Bunny_.” The farmer calls, low but firm, snapping the fingers of the hand at his side.

The Labrador’s attention pulls away from Shane momentarily, moves back long enough for it to give the back of his hand one last friendly lick before it prances back to its master.

“Good evening.” Blackwater says as he meets Shane beneath the pole-light. His tone doesn’t quite uptick at the end like a normal person’s question would, but his head tilts as he says it, eyebrows ticking together subtly as the corners of his eyes pinch inwards, almost accusatory.

_‘What brings you here?’ _Shane’s brain translates.

Shane shifts his stance, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “I, uh…” It occurs to him, quite suddenly, that he hadn’t thought about how he’d open the conversation- just about where he’d planned to take it.

It also occurs to him that maybe hand delivering six packets of seeds to a man in the middle of the woods is perhaps overkill when one has to walk past said man’s mailbox in order to find him.

Shit.

_Don’t panic_.

<strike>(Too late.)</strike>

Shane chuckles in a half-hearted attempt to hide his discomfort, has to force himself not to shove his hands into his pockets in nervous habit. He can still save this, probably, “I may or may not have just realized that it would have made much more sense to just leave this in your mailbox, but- we, uh, got these in today.” Shane clears his throat as he extends a hand, seed packets pinched between his outstretched fingers, “We being Joja, not, ah- not Marnie’s.”

So much for salvaging the situation.

Slowly, very, very slowly, Blackwater reaches out to take the offered packets of rhubarb seeds, eyes tightening evermore. He looks the packets over, thin lips pulled tight into a confused little frown. When his gaze rises back to Shane, he looks slightly lost.

Shane swallows past a particularly stubborn lump in his throat, “We’re only gonna be carrying them this month and Katirn—” Blackwater’s brows tick at the unfamiliar name, Shane tries and fails not to fumble as he backtracks, “—the, uh- she works the registers—” Shane gives in, shoves his hands into his pockets as he rambles, “—told me you only shop there every _other_ month, and you were just there a week or so ago, so- by the time you’d be due for another trip, we, uh- we wouldn’t be… carrying them… anymore…”

Silence as Blackwater stares at him.

Shane clears his throat, toes anxiously at the ground, “I just- I don’t know. Figured you might want some, or something.”

Somebody shoot him. Somebody smack him upside the head, stick a muzzle in his ear, and _fucking _shoot him.

This was literally the exact opposite of his plan. God, what is even doing here? Blackwater probably thinks he’s a fucking crazy person now. Because, really, _rhubarb seeds?_ Who the hell gives somebody they’re (maybe—Shane still isn’t sure) interested in fucking _rhubarb seeds?_

Crazy people, that’s who.

Shane just- Shane wants to die. Wants to lower himself to the ground and disappear into his hoodie, never to be heard from again.

“Thank you.”

Shane snaps back to attention at the low rumble of Blackwater’s voice.

The man is looking at him with an expression Shane can’t place as he tucks the rhubarb seeds into the back pocket of his jeans, lips pursed. His eyes flicker to the ground, linger there for a moment, contemplative, then pull back to Shane’s face. He lets his lips out of their purse, exhales, and repeats in a way that sounds less like a question, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Shane says, the words feeling like they’re being dragged out of him via fish hook. He swallows, rolls his lower lip beneath his teeth as he knots his fingers together in his pockets and takes a jilted step backwards.

Chock this one up as a failure- it’s time to bail.

(<strike>and maybe avoid Blackwater for the rest of his life.</strike>)

“I’m just gonna- leave now. Have a good night.” Shane chokes out before turning on his heels to speed walk back the way he came. He pinches his eyes closed, grimacing as the hot flush of shame rolls over him, settling neatly into his gut.

He’s so busy hating himself that it takes him a few seconds longer than it should for him to realize that Blackwater’s pulled up beside him- is easily keeping pace with him because of those damn stilts he calls legs.

Shane might or might not jump a little bit at the sight of him.

“Too dark to work any longer.” Blackwater says, eyes fixed pointedly on the path ahead as his dog—_Bunny_, apparently; who the hell names a dog _Bunny?_—trots alongside him, blissfully oblivious to stiff awkwardness that hangs around them like a storm cloud.

Shane grunts- or tries to.

It ends up coming out more as a squeak.

XXX

They largely ignore one another from there, which isn’t awkward _at all_. Shane’s eyes jump from road sign to road sign, searching desperately for the one he passed on his way here that points the way to Cindersap.

It doesn’t come.

(Won’t for a while, Shane knows, but searches anyways.)

Every once in a while, Shane can feel Blackwater’s eyes on the side of his face.

XXX

“The Egg Festival is coming up soon,” Shane finally says after a small eternity of painful silence. He kicks himself immediately after saying it- but not too hard, because it was the only thing that came to mind that wasn’t some variation of, _‘so, this weather we’re having…_’ and that would have been much, much worse.

Blackwater, the bastard, doesn’t say anything, just _looks at him_ again, and Shane has never so viscerally known what it feels like to be dying inside as he does in this moment.

“It’s kind of, like, the highlight of the season,” He rambles on, and he doesn’t believe in Yoba, but if some higher power could strike him down right now, that’d be great, “Like, there’s the Flower Dance, sure, but that’s- that’s more of a couple thing. The Egg Festival is a _community thing_\- and, well, that’s kind of like the whole thing around here, isn’t it?”

Not that Blackwater would know, because he never leaves his fucking farm.

“I… wouldn’t know.” Blackwater echoes unknowingly.

Shane swallows, tries not to sound too eager when he says, “I mean, you could though? Just because you didn’t go last year, doesn’t mean you’re not invited this year.”

“Parties are…” Blackwater begins, trails off. After a too-long pause, says, “They don’t agree with me. Too much excitement.”

“It’s not- it’s not _really _a party, though,” Shane wets his lips, “It’s more like… like everybody just hangs out in the square for the day. The most exciting thing that happens is the egg hunt, but you don’t have to participate. It’s mostly just something we do for the kids.”

“They like that?” The farmer asks, sounding genuinely curious. Shane hazards a glance at the man- can practically _see _the carefully constructed walls crumbling. It makes Shane giddy—maybe a little bit breathless—despite himself.

“A little too much, if you ask me. Sambastigale and Jas are seriously competitive.”

He realizes his slip-up a second too late.

“…Sambastigale?” Blackwater asks, a chuckle in his voice, and when Shane meets his eyes, they’re _dancing_.

Somewhere, a fairy just got its fucking wings.

“Sam and Sebastian and Abagail.” Shane explains, pushing down his embarrassment at being caught using Jas’ pet name for the trio. In exchange for a look like that? Totally worth it, “You rarely see one without the other two.”

Shane’s pleasure, however, is short lived, as his eyes catch on the oncoming sign that reads, ‘_Cindersap Forest_.’ And isn’t this how it always goes? When you _want _time to pass, it moves at a snail’s pace, but when you want every minute you can get, suddenly everything moves in fast-forward.

“Cleaver.” The farmer hums.

“Jas came up with it,” Shane tells him as they come to a stop at the turn-off.

Blackwater stands there, his dog panting happily at his side, looks at Shane looking at the side-road.

“Well, uh,” Shane says as he steps off, jerking a thumb down the as-of-yet unlit road, not very much looking forwards to making the rest of the walk home in near-darkness, “This is me.”

“So it is.” Blackwater sounds out—and Shane has to suppress a frown, because that same blank look has overtaken the man’s face again.

Just when it had finally felt like they were maybe getting somewhere.

(<strike>Last time doesn’t count; the man was sleep deprived and clearly still upset over whatever had happened during his time away from the valley</strike>.)

Shane swallows, wonders what he can do to cast the look away again.

In the end, all he says is, “Maybe I’ll see you at the Egg Festival.”

The farmer doesn’t say anything- just looks at him for a long moment, one hand resting on his dog’s head, before finally casting his gaze to the ground.


	8. Spring IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Things have been a little crazy since the whole self-quarantine thing kicked in and, while I'm fine and working comfortably from home, the generally panicked mentality of the majority of the world has made it a bit more difficult for me to concentrate on my creative endeavors. I did, though, have a lot of fun writing this chapter- I honestly think that, next to the first chapter, it might be my favorite. I dunno, I just really like writing people hanging out in the great outdoors for some reason. Like, writing garden parties and barbecues and beach days is my absolute favorite.
> 
> Speaking of my favorite things, the lovely Astomnus drew some absolutely amazing [fanart](https://astomnus.tumblr.com/post/612896778714562560/stuck-in-isolation-for-the-foreseeable-future-so) of River that I've been gushing over literally all day!!!

The farmer is at the Egg Festival.

_River Goddamn Blackwater _is _at _the _Egg Festival_.

—Granted, he’s as far as he can possibly be from the festivities, but he is- he is undeniably _there_, sitting in the shade of Harvey’s clinic looking generally out of place in a pair of baggy jeans and flip flops and a too-big tank top that hangs off him far too much to be appropriate. (Also on his person are those stupid mirrored aviators, because of course they are—though they’re hanging from the collar of his shirt rather than being worn properly—and, curiously, a ladies’ sun hat.)

Shane can hardly believe his eyes.

Blackwater’s dog—Bunny, Shane thinks her name was—is laying at his side, her head in his lap, one of her ears pinched between his fingers as he rubs circles over it with his thumb and forefinger.

Haley is present as well, seated prettily in the grass beside him in a flowing white sundress, leaning back against the brick wall of Harvey’s clinic, diagonal to Blackwater, who’s seated himself against the bark of a close-by tree. A thin, much-too-large black zip-up hoodie that Shane suspects belongs to River hangs loose around her shoulders like a shawl, swims around her midsection, bunches at her wrists as she holds her camera up to catalogue the day’s festivities, a pair of name-brand sunglasses perched high on her head.

(The scene is like something out of a magazine spread, Shane thinks.)

Shane doesn’t know how long the trio has been there—he only just showed up himself—but, by the looks of it, it’s been a while. They seem rather comfortable in their quiet little corner, and, aside from casual looks of vague interest tossed in the trio’s direction every once in a while, the other residents of the valley seem to have gotten used to their presence.

Well—with one exception.

Alex is, predictably, sulking at the loss of his usual festival-buddy.

Really, though, Shane thinks, Haley’s abandonment shouldn’t come as too much of a shock. The two have always sort of stuck together despite the seven-year age gap between them just because- well, _look _at them. Neither of them exactly fit in around here on their own; both young and full of lofty dreams, seeking more than a little town like this can ever hope to give them.

Beyond that, though, they really don’t have anything in common.

(That being said… Haley and Blackwater don’t seem to have anything in common either, and they look to be getting along like a house on fire, so, really, what does Shane know?)

Shane has to tear his eyes away from the famer and force his attention back to where Marnie and Jas are helping Gus prep the buffet table for lunch. He makes his way over to them, all the while keenly aware of the bleach-white smudge lingering in the periphery of his vision.

“Shane!” Jas calls when she sees him, nearly falling off the folding chair she’d been kneeling on in her haste to get to him. Her hair is held aloft in a loose ponytail- the only style other than a vanilla braid that Marnie knows how to do. Instead of her usual dress, she’s wearing a large red baseball tee beneath a pair of faded light blue overalls, feet laced into a mismatched pair of pink and pastel yellow skate shoes that cut off at her ankles, just a few inches below the cuffed legs of her pants.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come!” She’s saying as she plows into him, gangly arms hooking around his thighs, “I wanted to wake you up before we left, but Marnie said you weren’t feeling good.” She looks up to him, eyes big and blissfully unknowing in their distress, “Are you better now?”

Shane hides his grimace behind a wobbly smile, glances to Marnie, who stares back knowingly. Her gaze wearied and something approaching aggravated, but there’s concern there, too. The guilt building in his gut chases his eyes back to his goddaughter, “Yeah, I just… haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.”

“It’s not good to stay up past your bedtime,” She tells him seriously.

Shane chuckles, ruffles her bangs—ignores the indignant huff it prompts—as he bypasses her to approach his aunt at the buffet table, “Where do you need me?” He asks. Marnie’s lips curl into a smile at the question, weariness seeping out of her posture at his readiness to help.

She’s always been terrible at holding grudges.

“There’s not really much here that still needs doing. Why don’t you do enjoy the festivities, for once?” Her lips curl in more in the corners, cheeks rounding out as the bottom lids of her eyes pull tight, “Leave the setup to the adults.”

Shane gives an unamused look, suppresses the urge to cross his arms over his chest like a petulant child, “Im thirty-two.”

“That’s still young,” Marnie says, reaching out to pat his cheek despite his scowl. She tosses her chin towards the festivities, “Go have fun.”

Shane stares at her for a long moment before sighing. Marnie’s smile rounds out her cheeks that much more, because she knows she has him beat.

It’s not that Shane is really all that gung-ho about helping out, it’s just that it gives him something to do other than hover awkwardly. Despite the impression that he’s probably unintentionally given Blackwater, Shane’s not exactly Mr. Social. The only people in town he enjoys spending time with are Jas and Marnie. (Though he’s been known to shoot the shit with Pam if she’s around. Alcoholics in arms and all that.) So, festivals, as nice as they are in theory, have always been something that Shane enjoys and hates in equal measure.

He’s always excited for them until they actually _happen _(the prep work often feels more fun than the festival itself), upon which point he’s left wondering why he’s even there, because there’s really nothing for him to do, and nobody in town actually likes him all that much anyways.

Marnie, who knows him too well, sighs back at him with a begrudging expression of exasperated fondness before leaning towards him over the buffet table and placing a hand atop his own, “Why don’t you go say hello to Mr. Blackwater, hmm?” She suggests, an overture of mischief in her eyes, “He’s been staring at you since you got here.”

It takes literally everything Shane has not to whip around on the spot to see if there’s any truth to the woman’s frankly outrageous claims.

His aunt must be able to tell, because she laughs at him softly under her breath, offering the back of his hand a little pat, “Give him my best, won’t you?” She says—has the _gall _to _wink _at him—before turning around and walking back towards the Stardrop, presumably to bring out the rest of the food.

Shane stews in place for a moment, fighting the rabid flush trying to claw its way onto his cheeks.

XXX

When Haley leaves to get a plate from the buffet table, Shane seizes the opening.

Contrary to Marnie’s teasing, the farmer isn’t at all paying attention to Shane—rather, he’s watching Sam and Abagail scramble about the square with an overly large tree branch dragging behind them, Bunny hot on their heels, looking stuck somewhere between offended that his canine companion has left him and fascinated by their horseplay—so it’s relatively easy to approach him without being noticed and having to suffer through making awkward eye contact the whole walk over.

Shane comes from the side, silently sidling into the shade of Blackwater’s tree with his fists pushed deep into the pockets of his hoodie to hide his fidgeting fingers. The farmer doesn’t notice him- huffs a short breath out through his nose as Sam steps on the tree branch and trips himself with it, falling into a wide-eyed Sebastian. Sebastian catches his boyfriend, just barely, but then the chocolate lab with a body more like a deer than a dog bowls into them, knocking the pair to the ground as Abagail cackles madly in the background.

Five seconds turns to fifteen, and Blackwater still doesn’t notice him, and now it’s getting weird, so Shane bites the bullet and says, “Wasn’t expecting you to show.”

River startles, a strangled sound gurgling up the back of his throat as he shifts sharply towards Shane. (Shane wonders, briefly, if it’s unsettling for the man to find himself craning his neck to look up at somebody instead of the other way around.) The farmer stares at him for a long moment with uncharacteristically wide eyes, chest heaving despite his closed mouth being pinched closed.

Shane winces, “Sorry,” _nice going_, _moron_, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

River gives a sharp nod, blinking furiously a few times before his breath evens out and his face falls back into its usual calmness. Finally, he exhales through parted lips, extended legs pulling inwards until his knees are adjacent to his chest. He’s got dark wood gauges in his ears, Shane notices for the first time—no bigger than quarters with little flowers carved into them.

Daisies, he thinks they might be- though he’s never been good with flowers.

“Haley broke into my house this morning,” Blackwater tells him, deadpan, and Shane honestly can’t tell whether or not the man is trying to joke or what, “threatened to drag me out by my hair.”

“Lies and slander.” The aforementioned blonde says primly as she reappears with a plate in each hand and two cups of punch pinned against her torso with one arm. She somehow manages to lower herself back into her seat without dropping/spilling anything or flashing her undergarments to everybody in the general vicinity, to which Shane is silently impressed.

He’s never worn a dress before, but he can’t imagine they’re very easy to maneuver in, especially when one’s hands are full.

Haley hands the farmer a cup of punch and one of the plates—the one with egg salad, pepper poppers, some chips and a blob of guacamole, keeping the one with fruit salad and deviled eggs for herself—and settles back into her seat, crossing her ankles daintily, “I’d never hurt your hair like that.”

Blackwater frowns at her as he sits back against the bark of his tree, lifting a pepper popper to his mouth a biting into it with a sullen expression.

“Oh, stop sulking,” Haley says as she spears a piece of fruit with a toothpick and lifts it to her mouth, “One afternoon in town isn’t going to kill you- god forbid you do anything other than work.”

Blackwater opens his mouth as if to retort, but one cut of his eyes towards Shane has him closing it, huffing again, and pushing the rest of his pepper popper into his mouth. Haley chuckles, closed mouthed around her food, and prods his ankle playfully with the toe of her sandal in something that’s either an apology or further teasing.

Shane, now feeling _very much _like a third wheel, just stands there, wondering if it might be time for him to leave- but then Haley’s looking over to him, her smile evaporating, and he’s pinned in place by the cool blue of her eyes, “You gonna loom there all day or you gonna sit down with the rest of the class?” And her tone is so sharp, eyes so narrow, that it takes Shane a moment to realize that she’s giving him an invitation to stay rather than telling him to fuck off like he’d first thought she was.

Haltingly, Shane searches the ground for a comfortable place to sit that doesn’t put him on top of either of them, and comes up empty. He’s about to just lower himself to the ground where he is when Blackwater sets down his plate and silently shuffles to sit beside Haley against the wall of Harvey’s. Once he’s settled himself properly, his eyes snap briefly between Shane and his relinquished spot before he casts them off and takes his plate back onto his lap, lifts his fork to prod at the small hill of egg salad.

“…thanks.” Shane murmurs as he sits, wishing he’d thought this through more. He pulls his knees up to his chest and winds his arms around them, self-conscious, as he chews his lips and debates what he’s going to say next.

—But then he looks to Haley, occasionally spearing fruit with a toothpick as she fiddles with her camera over her lap, and Blackwater, picking quietly at his plate, eyes occasionally darting up to peek at Shane - though it seems to be more out of cautious curiosity than anything else - and thinks that, maybe, he doesn’t have to say anything.

(_Show you’re interested and leave him to himself- he’ll come around_.)

So he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If River was a Stardew NPC, Shane would be at three hearts with him after this chapter. In celebration of this, and since so many of you seem so curious about him, have a belated (spoiler free) bio of my sad albino farmer boy!
> 
> River Michael Blackwater (He/Him)  
7ft 3in | 34 Years Old (Capricorn)  
Demiromantic Pansexual  
Favorite Color: Pale Pink / Anything Pastel
> 
> (Known) Family:  
\- Michael Morrows (Grandfather)  
\- Unnamed Mother 
> 
> Friends:  
\- Haley  
\- The Junimos  
\- Krobus
> 
> Loved Gifts:  
\- Blueberry Tarts  
\- Hot Peppers  
\- Rhubarb Pie  
\- Crocus  
\- Spicy Eel 
> 
> Hated Gifts:  
\- Escargot  
\- Survival Burger  
\- Eggplant Parmesan  
\- Mushrooms (any)  
\- Rabbit's Foot
> 
> Enjoys:  
\- working with his hands  
\- cooking from scratch  
\- having his nails painted  
\- cloudy days  
\- spending time with family 
> 
> Hates:  
\- PDA  
\- being touched by strangers  
\- being stared at/the center of attention  
\- being told to smile  
\- having his picture taken
> 
> Misc. Tidbits:  
\- doesn't eat pork, beef, mutton, rabbit, or poultry  
\- very clingy/cuddly with friends and family (in private only)  
\- fluent in three languages; his mother tongue, common, and sign  
\- suffers from extreme light-sensitivity (skin and eyes)  
\- allergic to eggplant


	9. Spring V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks into quarantine, the author is SHOCKED to learn that blue isn't their natural hair color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take back what I said last chapter, THIS chapter was my favorite to write. My god I had such an absurd amount of fun.

It takes a while for the silence to stop being awkward—for the air to stop feeling thick and for the muscles in Shane’s shoulders and neck to fully relax—but, once it happens, it’s… it’s nice. It’s really, really nice.

Once he’s done picking at his plate, Blackwater produces one of those little wooden-hoop embroidery things from Haley’s purse and begins working on that, stitching little starburst flowers into the fabric with deft hands and a concentrated furrow to his brow, though his eyes still flicker up to Shane every now and again with an unsteady sort of curiosity.

Haley alternates between playing with her camera and taking pictures, the toothpick she’d been using to spear her fruit pinched between her teeth as she works, soft light wood stained with the red of her lipstick.

Shane, not having anything to do, watches Jas.

The Egg Hunt kicks off shortly after Shane sits down, and Jas, as expected, is on a mission. Her face is set in stone as she swoops through the town on swift feet, hitting all the obvious hiding spots in a clearly pre-planned pattern of attack.

She grabs a yellow egg from Evelyn’s tulip patch. A purple egg from behind the trashcan stationed outside the Stardrop. Jumps the fence of the cemetery, retrieves the egg hidden in the grass behind one of the headstones before diving for the second egg hidden in the overgrown foliage lining the fence. She cuts Vincent off at the river, darting in front of him at the last second to scoop up a pink-painted egg hiding in a little tuft of forget-me-nots that he’d been extending a hand to collect.

“I thought we were friends!” He calls dramatically as she sprints away.

“There are no friendships here!” Jas yells back before disappearing into the bushes next to Haley and Emily’s house like a goddamn ninja.

Shane doesn’t know whether to be proud of her commitment to victory or concerned at how seriously she’s taking this.

A little huff sounds from Shane’s left, “You… really weren’t kidding.”

When Shane looks over, the farmer’s lowered his embroidery into his lap, is leaning forwards a little bit to peer around Haley, one elbow propped on his single up-drawn knee. There’s a bemused little quirk to his brow, the small, private smile curling at the corner of his mouth tugging one of his dimples into a shadow of prominence. His eyes flicker over to Shane for a fraction of a second, his smile faltering. He clears his throat, smoothing out his smile with a purse of his lips as he lightly tosses his head towards where Jas has just vaulted over Sam’s back to snatch up the egg he’d been bending over to collect.

“Wha- how- oh, _c’mon!”_ The teenager cries as he watches her disappear around the corner of the Stardrop.

Sebastian abuses his boyfriend’s moment of frustration to steal a flower-stamped egg from his basket. When Sam whirls around to sputter at him, Abagail darts out of the shade of the Stardrop and snatches two more with a cheeky grin and a kiss blown over her shoulder as she dashes out of his reach.

Sebastian steals another egg as Sam gapes at their girlfriend’s retreating figure before running off himself.

“There’s not much to do around here by means of entertainment,” Shane tells the farmer as Vincent approaches under the guise of consoling his bother only to grab another of his eggs and bolt, prompting an indignant bout of squawking from Sam and an uproarious bout of laughter from Jodie and Caroline, “So when something crops up, it tends to be taken a bit too seriously.”

River huffs an amused little breath as he lowers his chin comfortably to his forearm, something like sorrow creeping in to stain his porcelain features.

It’s quiet for a touch too long, the adults’ laughter feeling far away as Shane wonders what he’s supposed to do now- whether he’s supposed to say something or drop the conversation; turn away and go back to sitting peacefully in silence.

In the end, Haley makes the decision for him.

The blond falls against Blackwater’s side suddenly, flipping her camera around to snap a picture of them, one eye closed in a wink, face puckered in a silly smile while River stares wide-eyed at the thick camera lens with an almost comical level of shock.

“Gotcha,” She singsongs as she tips her head back against the farmer’s chest to stare up at him with an impish grin, eyebrows jumping playfully.

The farmer stares down at her, a crease to his brows, “I said no pictures,” He chides, his voice a low, displeased grumble.

“Aw, but you brood so prettily!” Haley teases, reaching up with her free hand to prod at the underside of the farmer’s ink stained jaw with a manicured nail. After a moment her grin falls to a contemplative purse. She gives the hinge of his jaw a little tap, “If it bothers you that much, I can delete it.”

Blackwater’s features scrunch. He glowers for a moment longer before his eyes slide closed and he sighs, opens them and fixes her with a firm look, “Only that one. No more.”

Haley hums, contented, before turning away and sliding down his side. She brings her camera up to her face to punch at the buttons once more, no longer seeming interested in the exchange.

Blackwater moves as if to return to his needlework, only for his brows to furrow slightly in confusion as his hands meet nothing but the worn fabric of his jeans.

Wordlessly, Shane picks up the farmer’s abandoned embroidery, which had been knocked off his lap in his surprise at Haley’s selfie attack, clears his throat lightly as he holds it out to him.

Blackwater’s eyes snap up to Shane at the sound, shoulders ticking upwards ever so slightly. His eyes move from Shane’s face to his needlework and back again before he reaches out slowly, hesitantly.

(‘_HOME,_’ the jagged cursive script across his knuckles reads.)

River takes the embroidery hoop with twitching fingers, nails coated in chipped black paint, “Thank you,” he says, pulling it back to himself a little too fast, like he’s afraid somebody will snatch it from him if he doesn’t.

Something about his tone makes Shane feel like he’s being thanked for something much more significant than retrieving a misplaced sewing project.

Shane shrugs, tucking himself back into his hoodie, “Don’t mention it.”

The sound of a high-pitched whistle cuts through the air, startling the farmer into a full-bodied flinch that has him scrambling not to drop his needlework again and nearly elbowing Haley in the head in the process.

“That’s time!” Demetrius calls from his place in the square as he lowers the silver whistle from his mouth.

XXX

Jas, much to her disappointment, doesn’t win.

She walks away with second place, though, which Shane thinks is rather good considering she and Vincent were the only competitors that weren’t of legal driving age. Only, apparently, second place isn’t good enough for her, as she then proceeds to, quite dramatically, declare that Abagail’s reign of terror will not carry over to next year’s festival, where she vows to reap her unholy vengeance.

(Suddenly, Shane is worrying that his goddaughter might be turning into a supervillain.)

“Next year,” Jas says as she marches up to Shane with her second place prize—a little box of candied gourmet chocolate eggs—tucked under her arm, looking for all the world like a soldier coming back from the war, “Next year, for sure.”

“You’ll be taller,” Shane agrees, and it might seem like a weird thing to say, to anybody who doesn’t know Jas as well as Shane does.

“My legs will be longer than ever,” Jas affirms with a sharp nod as she throws herself onto the grass beside him, immediately transferring her box of chocolates onto her lap to break into it.

“Sambastagail won’t stand a chance.” Blackwater’s low rumble of a voice carries over, and when Shane turns his attention towards the man, he’s regarding the pair with a dry, vaguely amused expression as he pauses where he’d been pulling his needle through the swath of fabric on his lap.

Jas looks at the farmer for a moment, as if just now realizing his presence—which, really, the man is kind of hard to miss—before dropping her chin in a firm nod, “That floppy hat will be mine.” She vows, perhaps a bit too seriously.

“Second place prize is chocolate, though,” Shane comments as he steals one of the little egg-shaped candies from her box and pops it into his mouth. It’s milk chocolate; filled with caramel and, Shane thinks, shredded coconut, “Seems to me like you got the better end of the stick.”

“It’s not about the hat,” Jas tells him primly as she stuffs a chocolate into her mouth, “It’s about what the hat represents.” She cuts her gaze towards the farmer, who’s silently returned to his sewing, though Shane can tell he’s still paying attention, “Mr. Blackwater understands.”

The man in question lifts his head slightly at his name, looks at them from beneath the brim of his own _incredibly _floppy hat. He stares at them for a long moment before saying, voice monotone, “Victory,” and returning to his needlework like he didn’t just deliver the most absurd one-liner Shane’s ever heard.

“Victory,” Jas agrees, deathly serious.

Shane shakes his head, laughs at them.

(If he were to look back to Blackwater, he would find the corner of the man’s lips curled upwards in his own silent, private smile.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may be wondering, “gee, River and Haley are awfully touchy feely coupley acting, why does Shane not suspect anything is going on between them?” LdV Haley is out as a lesbian. I know everybody’s Bi in cannon, but in the interest of preventing unnecessary misunderstandings, she’s gay here and it’s kind of an open secret that she’s got a thing for Penny, even if she refuses to talk to her/do anything about it.
> 
> Also, I got bored and decided to make a tumblr! Y'all should [follow me](https://methodoftheincubus.tumblr.com/)! It's only got a handful of posts right now because I just made it, but I'll be posting art, LdV progress updates, and I'm thinking of opening asks for River (and maybe my other OCs, depending on interest) to give myself some extra drawing practice.


	10. Spring VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous two heart event.

In most ways, nothing seems to change following the Egg Festival- but, at the same time, everything does.

The farmer still shops exclusively at Joja Mart, but he no longer travels miles out of the way by means of the mountain pass in order to avoid town. He still doesn’t crop up during daylight hours, mind- but Pierre will attest to having seen the man amble by his storefront in the early hours of the evening, only to pass by in the opposite direction with grocery bags in hand twenty or so minutes later.

Caroline has mentioned seeing the man in passing during her morning walks, typically with a basket of gathered plants and berries hooked on his arm, and Pam has more than once voiced her suspicions that Pelican Bay’s resident farmer is to thank for the sudden repair of her bus.

Shane catches glimpses of the man here and there, too, in places that he’d never seemed to see him before. Fishing on the bank of Cindersap River in the early hours of the morning as he’s leaving Marnie’s to begin his commute to Joja. Milling through the woods at night with his dog trotting along at his side and what Shane assumes to be one of his chickens perched on his shoulder, tugging a wagon behind him, piled high with things that Shane can’t make out through the darkness.

Laying out on end of the Cindersap pier one Saturday night, legs dangling off the edge into the water, a still-smoking cigarette hanging loosely from the fingers of the hand draped over the edge of the splintering wood.

(Shane doesn’t make himself known- can’t, because he feels like he’s intruding on something private. Just turns around and finds somewhere else to drink.)

Blackwater never approaches Shane on the occasions their paths happen to intersect, for which Shane is silently disappointed. At most, if their eyes should meet, the farmer will offer Shane a polite nod—and, sometimes, _maybe_, a wave—before continuing on at a slightly faster pace than before.

Shane wonders if he did something wrong without realizing it.

Until-

It’s close to midnight, a few weeks have passed since the Egg Festival and Shane couldn’t sleep- snuck out to drink at the pier until his thoughts stop spiraling, as per his usual strategy.

But then-

“Do you mind company?”

Shane jerks to attention, nearly drops his beer in the pond. Standing five or so feet away at the edge of the clearing stands the farmer. He’s barefoot, clad in pair of pale pink sleep pants and a white tank top. His hair is held back out of his face in a simple low ponytail, but it’s messy and falling apart in places. He’s got a little battery powered lantern dangling from one hand, and the light it’s giving off is bright enough that Shane wonders how he managed to get so close without Shane noticing him.

Then again, he wasn’t exactly paying much attention.

Shane is a little bit drunk and a lot sleep deprived, so he isn’t as excited at the farmer’s presence he probably would be otherwise. Isn’t entirely sure he even wants the man seeing him like this, if he’s being honest. But the farmer clearly came here straight from bed, and it’s one hell of a walk to make without shoes, so Shane takes pity on him, shrugs and says, “Knock yourself out.”

The allowance isn’t exactly ringing, so the farmer hesitates, but after a few moments, he accepts it for what it is. Then he’s padding over, looping behind Shane to make his way down the dock to Shane’s side, the old boards creaking dangerously beneath his feet.

He sets his lantern down first at the opposite corner of the dock as Shane’s seated, then, after bending to roll his pants up above his calves, he’s lowering himself down and slinging his long legs over the side. A pair of wings inked into the skin catch Shane’s eye; sprouting from the bone of Blackwater’s ankle and extending upwards as if in flight and tapering off a few inches before the hinge of his knee.

A rough scuffing sound at his side draw’s Shane’s attention and he looks back up to find the farmer holding a lighter to his face, a cigarette pressed between his lips. Once it’s lit, he pockets the little plastic drugstore lighter, reaches up to secure the cigarette with his free hand and takes a proper drag. After a moment, he pulls it away from his mouth, exhales, and offers it out to Shane, a tired question in his eyes.

“Nah,” Shane tells him with a little sigh.

He was never able to get into smoking- he doesn’t mind the smell of it like some people do, but he hates the taste it would leave in his mouth.

Blackwater hums in vague acknowledgement as pulls it back to take another hit, “I quit a few months after I moved out here,” he tells Shane, looking ahead rather than at him, “But every now and again I find myself reaching for a lighter.”

Shane hums, bringing his beer up to his lips to take a pull, “I know the feeling.”

Only, Shane doesn’t bother trying to stay away from his vices.

He’s already tried- knows he won’t be able to, that he’ll just hit the bottle that much harder when his resolve finally snaps and that’s honestly so much worse, so, really, what’s the point?

“Do you ever feel like… no matter what you do, you’re gonna fail?” Shane finds himself asking- and he knows his sober self is going to regret opening his big dumb mouth but right now he honestly doesn’t care what Sober Shane wants, “Like you’re stuck in some miserable abyss and you’re so deep that you can’t even see the light of day?”

The farmer huffs a little bit beside him, flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette into the water, “I am… familiar with the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

Blackwater kicks one leg lightly through the water, watches it ripple as it makes room for him, “I made… I made a choice, when I was young.” He tells Shane, “Not a day goes by that I don’t find myself wondering if it was the right one.”

Shane frowns, “Well, if you think about it that much… isn’t that you’re answer?”

The farmer’s answering smile is bittersweet, “I’m afraid it’s not so simple as that.”

Shane purses his lips, braces his elbows on his knees as he turns forward, ducking his head, “I just feel like… like no matter what I do, how hard I try, I- I’m not strong enough to climb my way out of that hole.”

Blackwater leans back, bracing one hand on the dock and flicking the ashes from his cigarette away with the other. He remains silent, which is almost kind of good, because Shane isn’t really in the mood to be cheered up right now—doesn’t really want to hear any of the usual inspiring blather spouted by those who have no idea how much they’re actually asking for. That it’s not as easy as that—that, if it was, Shane wouldn’t very well be in the position he’s in, would he?

Shane drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down at his side, leans backwards until his back is pressed to the dock and all he can see are the stars and the stark white ghost of the farmer lingering in his peripheral.

Shane doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, it’s his bedroom ceiling that greets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter with a bit of an abrupt ending, but I wanted to get something out because P5 Royal just dropped and I know myself well enough to know that my productivity is going to plummet now that I've got my hands on it. 
> 
> Comments are not only appreciated, but proven to increase the rate at which I update ;)
> 
> I guess I'll be pimping out my [tumblr](https://methodoftheincubus.tumblr.com/) here, now.


	11. Spring VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up getting away from me, so I decided to split it in two. This part is rather short, and nothing super substantial happens (for which I’m sorry), but the next one is shaping up to be a long one. I'm hoping to get back to my unofficial update schedule of one chapter a week (usually posted on Sunday night), but the next chapter catalogues what I’ve been sort of inwardly referring to as “River’s Five Heart Event,” so it's likely that I'll hold onto it for a bit longer to make sure everything is as it needs to be.
> 
> Sidenote: Breaks in the story shown with X's indicate a brief period of time passing between scenes, usually of hours or minutes, while breaks in the story shown with O's indicate a longer span of time has passed between scenes, typically anywhere from a day to a week and some change.

It’s a strange few days after what Shane has inwardly begun to refer to as The Cindersap Encounter.

Shane keeps waiting for somebody to say something. Say what, he doesn’t know. But it’s a discomforting feeling; falling asleep in one place and waking up in another and not knowing what happened in between. Especially when he’d been slightly drunk and more-than-slightly fatalistic and in the company of the man he definitely has _some _sort of feelings for—nevermind that he still hasn’t been able to pin down the exact nature of them, yet.

So, it’s weird.

Not knowing and wanting to know and waiting for answers and not getting them.

OOO

_Katrin is slipping_, Shane thinks as he stands behind the JojaMart register for the third time in two weeks. She’s been getting sick more and more frequently, the usual shadows under her eyes growing to noticeable bruises, and Shane doesn’t know how much longer she’s going to last—is surprised she’s made it this far, honestly.

Then again, Joja shipped her down to the valley special just like Morris, so there must be something to be said about her.

Shane huffs, glances down to the pen he’s been occupying himself with for the past half-hour, spinning it deftly between his fingers like a miniature baton. _Ring, middle, index- middle, ring- middle, index; back again_.

A clap of thunder shakes the store and Shane thinks, yeah, Marnie was right. He should have just called out today—he’s so not looking forward to walking home in that.

The doors slider open with a mechanical chime.

Shane looks towards the storefront-

His pen flies across the room.

River Blackwater is ducking inside, raking his hands back through his hair—soaked through like the rest of him, because there’s a _literal hurricane brewing outside_, _you absolute fucking lunatic_.

The farmer stands there for a moment on the front doormat, meticulously ringing out his sodden hair and too-big t-shirt. He scuffs the soles of his boots until they’re free of mud as he collects his hair, securing it atop his head with a pair of black hair ties procured from his wrist.

When he finally looks up, his eyes catch on Shane, and after a moment of silent, startled staring, he _smiles_—a tiny, hesitant thing—and Shane can’t help glancing around to see if he’s missing something, if Haley hadn’t snuck in when he wasn’t paying attention to loiter by the gossip mags or something, but the floor is empty. Morris ducks out early on Fridays and Sam’s already clocked out for the night. It’s just Shane and the farmer who’s still _smiling _at him as he paces across the linoleum, work boots squeaking a bit with each step.

The man doesn’t say anything as he passes by Shane, but he lifts one hand in a tiny wave, one shoulder lifting in an awkward shrug as his smile goes a little bit smaller, sort of lopsided.

Shane blinks at him, lifts his own hand to numbly return the gesture.

Blackwater’s smile twitches, goes a bit… _something_ before falling away entirely as he passes. Tucking a non-existent cord of hair behind his ear, he turns away from Shane, collects a plastic basket to hang from his arm and disappears down the canned isle.

Shane waits at the register, staring down his pen from its place across the store as he flicks his fingers against one-another for lack of anything else to fidget with.

XXX

Like last time, the farmer conducts his shopping in a timely manner. Unlike last time, he really doesn’t bother with anything organic or food related.

When he returns to the registers and sets his basket down on the counter, Shane begins to ring up his purchases. The farmer idles across from him, fingers tugging at the hem of his still-wet shirt. Shane feels the man’s eyes on him and buckles a little bit under the pressure of it, fumbles with the canister of shaving cream he’s sliding over the scanner.

Finally, when he can’t take it any longer, he pushes out a breath and looks up—finds the farmer eyeing him as he picks at the hem of his still-wet shirt, eyes darting down to his hands when Shane meets them like a child being caught playing with something they’re not supposed to.

He’s frowning a little now, lips pursed, brows knit as he stares adamantly downwards.

He looks so _sad _and Shane can’t fathom why, can only glance around and shuffle awkwardly and say, “You know we sell umbrellas, right?”

Blackwater’s eyes fly up to his, startled.

Shane forces the corners of his mouth into an upturn, quirks a brow and hopes the man sees the playful jest for what it is.

After a moment, the farmer huffs a small breath, shifts a little on his feet, peers down at Shane and says, quietly, voice barely a murmur over the sound of the storm raging outside, “I like the rain,” and that special, private smile of his is beginning to show itself again.

The weight in the air lifts, the tension that had built up in Shane’s shoulders unravelling at the small reassurance that they’re _fine_— that he didn’t somehow manage to mess it all up again and send Blackwater withdrawing back into himself.

Shane sighs, huffs a breath that is just as amused as it is relieved as he swipes a four-pack of toilet paper over the scanner, pulling a mechanical beep from the register, “There’s rain, and then there’s—” as if on cue, a clap of thunder booms outside, “—that.” Shane recalls the newscaster saying that the winds might reach fifty miles an hour. He doesn’t think it’s quite that bad, yet, but it’s certainly well on its way.

—In fact, if Shane knows what’s good for him, he’ll lock up and head soon as he’s finished ringing up the farmer. Otherwise he’ll be spending the night on the break room couch again, and he’s pretty sure that thing was designed to be as uncomfortable as humanly possible. Morris hasn't popped in to check on him _once_ since he retreated to his apartment above the store a few hours ago- who’s to say he’ll even _notice_ if Shane ducks out early?

“I didn’t think it was going to be this bad.” Blackwater admits, sounding vaguely repentant and maybe a little bit embarrassed.

“Yeah? Welcome to life on the coast.” Shane scoffs, swipes a multipack of chapstick over the scanner.

They fall to silence after that- but the silence isn’t like before. It’s relaxed, now, reminiscent of how it had been sitting in the Shane of Harvey’s clinic during the Egg Festival.

Shane rings up the rest of the farmer’s purchases, and he’s halfway through bagging them when he hears Blackwater inhale big, hold a moment before saying, “River.”

Shane looks up, brows pulling into a furrow, “Huh?”

Blackwater’s cheeks are tinted a rosy pink; a stark contrast to the rest of him, “I never…” He trails off, which Shane is beginning to realize happens whenever he doesn’t take his mandatory fifteen seconds of silence to formulate a complete reply, “I never introduced myself properly, so…” A pause, followed by a somewhat awkward shrug of one shoulder as he lifts a hand to offer out to Shane, “I’m River.”

_I know_, Shane almost says, but that would _definitely_ be kind of creepy, so instead he reaches out to take the man’s hand—much bigger than his and very, very warm—and says, “Shane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh the fact that it took River 11 chapters to introduce himself is, like, a metaphor for his and Shane's entire relationship.


	12. Spring VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up four months late in Byleth cosplay with a Gatekeeper plushy* Honey, I can explain
> 
> In all seriousness, I'm so, SO sorry this took so long to put out. Between losing 5,000 words to the void, family drama, and generally shitty mental health I have just... not been writing. Like, at all. It's just been a whole lot of drowning my problems - and my free time - in Three Houses. I finally started working again today and seem to have found my footing, at least with this fic, and it feels SO GOOD. This chapter isn't as long as it was going to be, which I feel like I say a lot, but what was going to be its second half still needs some pretty heavy editing and I wanted to get something out while I was in an internet-friendly mood (because sometimes I just. I can't.). Speaking of, I just realized the link to my tumblr (which I have also been heavily neglecting) is no longer functional because my blog's URL was changed. I will, at some point soon hopefully, get around to updating the links, but I am just. Too tired right now.
> 
> Anyways. Enough sleepy rambling. Enjoy the chapter <3

“Shane.”

River shakes Shane’s hand, gentile but firm, and Shane looks at their joined limbs thinks—

_His hands are really pretty._

His hand engulfs Shane’s it’s so big, but unlike Shane’s meaty digits, the farmer’s fingers are long and pale and delicate, decorated with lightly fading ink and dolled up with a fresh coat of dark blue nail polish. Several rings adorn his knuckles- all different shapes, sizes, and cuts of precious stone. One of them even seems to glow, though Shane is sure it’s just a trick of the light.

—_Remember when we were trying not to be creepy?_

Shane clears his throat, pulls his hand back to adjust his hat by the brim—dutifully avoiding looking at the man across from him—and sets his attention back to bagging up the rest of the farmer’s purchases.

XXX

“I’ve- I’ve been meaning to ask…” The farmer pipes up some thirty seconds later, thankfully still speaking in sentences, but seemingly unable to commit to being confident in his words just yet, “I’ve been trying to contact your aunt regarding the purchase of some additional livestock, but… she never seems to be in the store.” His words aren’t pitched up at the end like they should be, but Shane hears the question for what it is.

“It’s the season,” Shane tells him, “Demand is through the roof in the spring, and Marnie isn’t the only livestock dealer in the valley; if she drops the ball, business’ll go to the competition, so she spends a lot of time away from the main store making sure everybody’s happy.” He explains, “You’ll have the best luck flagging her down on the weekend.”

River’s expression catches, does that fluttery thing it tends to do—gaze straying to the floor as he lets out a short, disappointed breath, “I’m… not around on weekends.”

_Ah_.

“Quad-County Market?” Shane can’t exactly picture the man across from him playing shopkeep for two whole days while being surrounded by people on all sides, but he supposes the farmer needs to make money somehow.

River catches the edge of his bottom lip with his teeth, dropping his head in a tiny, timid nod, “Mhmn.”

Shane lifts a hand to scratch at his temple, “Uh, in that case… I guess I can let my aunt know you’ve been wanting to put in an order for some new animals. See if she can’t stop by Lyre sometime in the next week or so to hash the specifics out with you?”

The farmer stiffens almost unnoticeably, posture going just the _slightest bit _rigid, and Shane comes to the sudden, halting realization that River might just be _afraid _of Marnie, which is just. It’s _ridiculous_. Aside from the fact that the man across from him could probably bench _five of her_, Marnie is probably one of the most non-threatening people Shane’s ever _met_, and yet—

The farmer is doing that thing he does, again. Irises gone all fluttery, like he’s forcing himself to keep his gaze present but can’t _quite _seem to manage it.

Shane’s tempted to tell him that he doesn’t have to force eye contact if it makes him that uncomfortable, but… they’re probably not _quite_ at that point yet—that, and he’s pretty sure the farmer thinks he’s being subtle about it. And who knows, maybe he is; Shane doesn’t remember the man being so awkward when they first met, but, really, it could just have been a matter of Shane not knowing the man well enough to be able to tell.

Shane sighs.

“How about you let me know what you want, and I can put the order in for you?” It shouldn’t be _too _huge of a task. They’ve already got the farmer’s credit card on file, so really, it’s just a matter of having Blackwater consent to Shane using it for something other than his bi-monthly feed deliveries.

River lets out slow exhale that Shane thinks might just spell relief, “I would… like that very much. Thank you.” It’s strange, Shane thinks, the way the man tacks his gratitude onto the end of the statement- like speaking without so many layers of politeness might cause him physical pain. But then the man is sweeping a loose lock of damp-yet-drying hair behind his ear, scraping one of his canines over the swell of his bottom lip as one corner of his mouth lifts into a bashful smile, and Shane’s attention is all at once seated attentively elsewhere.

Shane shakes his head, covers the motion with a hand-wavy, “Don’t mention it.” As he reaches aside to slide a Joja-brand notepad across the counter towards him. He lifts a hand to his ear for his pen, only to wince inwardly as his fingers close around empty air.

Right.

After a quick scan of the counter, Shane locates another pen and clicks it open, scribbles a tiny ball in the upper corner of the paper to make sure it works before looking up to River and raising a brow, “So, what’cha in the market for?”

The farmer shifts his stance to the side, gaze falling idly, “One calf, one pig, five ducklings—” Shane realizes that this is an actual _list, _not a matter of the farmer saying ‘_I want [x] [animal]_’, and quickly doubles over the counter to write, “—two sheep, two goats, and a filly; all female, save for a drake in with the ducklings.”

Shane scribbles it all down, somehow feeling out of breath by the end of it, “That’s…” Shane begins after a moment, looking down at his hasty chicken scratch, “…a lot going on at once.” Seems like a lot of animals to suddenly be taking care of at once, if you ask Shane. New animals need attention- a _lot _of attention. _Especially _a horse, double that if the farmer’s looking to ride it.

“I’ve got the time.” River sounds out simply, and there’s something else there- something Shane can’t quite place, “Besides, I…” The man trails off, uncertain, “I’m thinking of hiring an extra set of hands to help with things, so…” He shrugs a single shoulder, eyes lolling off to the side.

Before the demon in Shane’s gut can grab ahold of his tongue and ask, ‘_How much?_’ the telltale sound of lightning striking cuts through the air, and the store is bathed in blackness.

“_Shit_,” Shane says, with feeling.

XXX

Shane and the farmer stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out into the storm from one of the automatic doors that Shane had had to switch to manual mode and pry open. The wind is whipping around violently, trees bending in the distance, the creaking of their strained trunks almost confusable with thunder.

“Should we… stay here?” River asks slowly, his grocery bags tucked into the crook of his arm. Shane can barely hear him over the storm.

“Probably.” Shane says, grimacing, “But my boss lives upstairs and it’s only a matter of time before he wakes up and notices. I don’t wanna be here when he does.” Last time they’d lost power, Morris had Shane and Katrin out in the rain for what felt like an hour trying to start up the generators (“The _perishables, _Shaun!”); to say it had been a horrible experience would be putting it lightly.

It’s certainly not something Shane wants to repeat.

Still-

“It’s an hour walk back to either of our places under normal circumstances.”

Beside him, the farmer hums, the sound just bass enough to be heard through the wind. Shane looks to the man, squinting to take in the way the farmer’s brows are knitting together in the dark of the store, a small, contemplative frown shaping his mouth.

“What’re you thinking?” Shane asks when it doesn’t seem like he’s going to share.

Slowly, Blackwater shifts, plastic grocery bags rustling. He tugs his bottom lip in- another tell of his that Shane is beginning to pick up on- before letting it go and smoothing them out, “I… might have an idea.” He glances over to Shane, and for the briefest of moments, Shane sees a tiny spark of something like _playfulness _dancing in the farmer’s ice blue eyes. The corner of his mouth quirks, that illusive dimple peeking into prominence, “If you trust me?”

And how is Shane supposed to say no to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to make any concrete promises of when the next chapter will be out, because I think we've established by now that I'm terrible at meeting deadlines, but I will say that I am HOPING that not nearly as much time will pass between now and the next update. I really adore writing this fic and it makes me so sad when I just can't make words happen good.
> 
> (On a completely unrelated note: has anybody reading this who owns or has owned a dog with an undercoat ever run into the issue where the undercoat is shed but then never grows back? My four year old Shiba blew his coat months ago and it still hasn't come back in. I'm aware of all of his allergies - and I mean _all_, there are unfortunately a lot of them - so I know it's not that. Just wondering if any pet owners out there might be able to lend me their knowledge. I'm still going to bring him to the vet to have it looked into, but I'm curious. My baby's got a bald belly and I want to know why.)__


	13. [Interlude]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are pretty crazy right now IRL, between the due date of my brother's daughter creeping closer and closer, me trying to renovate my house/kitchen (getting the whole house done is my ultimate goal, because I'm looking to move out next year-ish and it needs to be ready for the market... but baby steps), and a bunch of other stuff, so I'm not sure between all that when I'll be able to get the next chapter out. BUT, I've been sitting on this for... for a WHILE and have been debating on posting it ever since its completion a few months ago and have finally decided to pull the trigger on it to give you guys a little something to nibble on before the next update in exchange for y'all being so endlessly patient with me.
> 
> This little diddy is a blurb from River's POV expanding into his mindset and mental state when first moving into the valley, while also dropping a few little hints as to his backstory. It fits as kind of slapdash with everything else because this was really just something I wrote for myself when trying to pin River's character down all those months ago, so if it does seem out of place, that's why. (At some point, I'll probably delete this and repost it as its own one-off, but, for now, as I don't have a series created that people could've followed in order to be alerted of it, it's going here.)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy?

No matter how many years go by, River will never be used to the sight of rain.

His Mother used to tell him, when he was a child, that they didn’t have snow year-round in the Outlands. That, most of the time, the clouds gave them water instead. In the Frostbauns, it always hovered somewhere between a couple dozen degrees below zero and _just _warm enough that three layers of socks wouldn’t be strictly necessary so long as one wasn’t particularly invested in the idea of owning toes.

Here, River feels like he’s melting even though it’s springtime.

He should be used to it, by now—it’s been nearly two decades since he’s been exposed to temperatures less than twenty degrees, and even that’s stretching it a bit—but, unfortunately, he can’t just _turn off _the genes that have his body operating at temperatures that would leave unblooded delirious with fever.

According to the travel brochure buried in his glove box, summers in the valley can get into the hundreds.

River thinks he might just die here.

_Stop being so dramatic. It’s unbecoming._

River ignores the poisonous whisperings in the back of his head, instead reaches down into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone. There are a few texts from Lilith—supportive well wishes that River can’t do more than skim over, lest he lose his resolve and go running back, even if the idea of spending one more day in the city has him feeling breathless and trapped.

Nothing from Noah.

River drops his phone into one of the cupholders, ignores Bunny’s friendly lick to the back of his hand from her place in the passenger’s seat.

He knows.

He _knows _he’s being selfish. He knows, he just- he doesn’t know what else to _do_. He can’t go home, not like he so desperately wants to. Is far too much of a coward, even now—_especially now_—to face the music, to let it all become that much more real.

_Obirnava, _he can’t—

He can’t think about this right now.

With shaking hands, River reaches for the radio knob and turns the volume up until he can feel the thump of the kick-drum in his bones. Squeezes his eyes shut because the road is a straight line as far as the eye can see and his truck is the only car in sight, so he can afford to, for just a moment.

Releasing a ragged breath, River opens his eyes and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.

_Pull yourself together_.

XXX

A man and a woman are waiting for him at the bus stop.

River notices as much before he’s even fully there, and the anticipation of the confrontation sure to follow is already rolling into tight coils of nausea in his gut. He knew- he knew he wouldn’t just be able to _show up_ and silently move in, because that’s not what normal people do.

Normal people smile and shake hands and go through the motions.

River’s not sure he _can _smile.

—No.

He knows he can.

He just.

He doesn’t _want _to. (He never wants to, hasn’t in years, but this is different- he’d _had _to, then, but there’s nothing forcing him, now. No pretty, ruby nails digging into his forearm; a silent, unspoken reminder to _be nice_\- as if River’s ever had it in him to be mean.)

His truck rolls to a stop, tires catching on loose asphalt, and River reaches to turn off the radio, Bunny leaning in to tongue at the back of his hand again. This time, he indulges her. Reaches to offer a scratch behind her ear that she accepts happily, pushing her face insistently to his hand, always so eager to be pet.

River drops his hand, reaches to grab his phone—_still no Noah_, he can’t help but fret. Because he _knows_, he knows he’s fucking up, that he’s still fucking up, even now- is just being too selfish to stop, because he’s spent so long giving that now that he’s decided to take something for himself he just can’t seem to _stop himself _from pushing for more—and pulling his bag out of the back seat and onto his shoulder.

He can still go back.

Noah will still be angry with him, but he’ll be forgiven, eventually—more easily if he leaves now. If he pulls away now and drives back, slips back into the loft like he never left. Things can go back to the way they were, and in a few years, it’ll almost be like nothing even happened.

<strike>(Wrong. He’s deluding himself. Noah might forget, but he never will. He’ll live quietly with the guilt until the day he dies.)</strike>

But.

He _needs this_.

Needs the quiet, needs the _space_\- no matter how badly he just wants to be held, to be smothered with love and told that it’s all going to be okay. He needs… he needs time- to figure out where he’ll go from here. If he’ll finally be able to own up to his choices or keeping shoving his head in the sand and pretending their consequences don’t exist.

Swallowing harshly, River pulls the keys from the ignition, stuffs them in his pocket as he pushes his way out of the truck, holding the door open a spell for Bunny to clamber over the center console and jump down after him.

When River finally faces his fears and looks up, the eyes are already on him- and even after so many years away from the Frostbauns, River can’t seem to stifle the flush of shame that overtakes him whenever those looks are pointed at him—like he’s some exotic animal at a zoo, new and interesting and special for it.

Something deep in River’s gut yearns to hate them for it.

But he can’t—_way to _fucking _nice_, Noah’s voice hisses in his mind, venomous and unsympathetic, like that’s a _bad _thing to be. But still, he can’t hold it against her; it’s his fault, his own failings that have driven her to such bitterness. If he’d only loved her more, loved her _better_—is too weak to bring himself to be truly angry over something he should be used to by now.

<strike>(It’s his own fault, anyways. Always his. Only his.)</strike>

Instead, River fixes his posture, swings the truck door shut and closes the distance with four long strides. He takes the man’s hand when he offers it, introduces himself like he’s done hundreds of times before.

He doesn’t smile- decides then and there that he won’t. Not here.

Not until he means it.


End file.
